


Seduction of Odile

by madsaialik



Series: By the Grace of My Training [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (loose) black swan au, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Ballet, F/M, Sexual Tension, Swan Lake - Freeform, and the entire history of ballet, did u know that Master is a correct title of of a male teacher because you will, even though i am very technically accurate i'm also going to get very very horny, let me start with a letter of apology, to the New York Ballet, to the ghost of Tchaikovsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsaialik/pseuds/madsaialik
Summary: Her chin jerks with more defiance than necessary under his predatory scrutiny. Something wants her to allow him to think of her as soft, a serious error of judgment on his part and to be proved wrong again and again.“Youneed a teacher?” he murmurs softly in deep, rumbling timbre. She pulls her brows together at his tone, how he sounds slightly mystified until he clarifies, but he still sounds… surprised, “The promising prima I’ve heard so much about.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: By the Grace of My Training [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593310
Comments: 195
Kudos: 625
Collections: Ijustfellintothissendhelp





	1. Chapter 1

Rey

Goosebumps nip at her skin as she walks the halls of the Rose Studio. Rey balances three coffees in her hand while she wrestles another door open. Peeking into the costume department, she frowns. Neither Rose or Finn are at their work stations yet, but everyone’s schedules are askew during auditions. Her tank top is damp with sweat, the New York City summer slick on her skin as she looks for a place to put the coffees down among the piles of delicate silk and tulle. With no safe place to set the cups down and remembering the time she smeared marshmallow fluff on her nutcracker corset last season, she looks elsewhere for them. 

“Hello, Rey.” 

Her shoulders bunch before she turns toward the voice of the Artistic Director. Grey hair was gently braided around Leia Organa’s head like a crown, elegance in the bend of her smile and eyes hard with years of commanding those around her with unattainable ease. 

Rey gestures to the heavy binders weighing her down. “Morning. Let me carry that for you.” 

With three coffees, two binders, and her bag slipping off her shoulder walks in comfortable silence with her adoptive aunt. She holds her head high when other dancers see them together. Rey did not gain her position through nepotism and will not allow anyone to think otherwise. No one gave her anything she could not gain herself.

“Auditions are always such a pain when I know the roles already,” Leia says not unkindly, but perturbed nonetheless. “The Board of Directors will argue all of my choices as if they know the difference between the first and fifth position.” 

Costuming and set design for the lastest retelling of Swan Lake dominates one wall. Post-its in various colors litter the plans with notes and last minute but still doable proposed changes. Beside the door, next to the empty coat rack is an old photograph of her husband. Han Solo was a dancer in the late seventies, a bit of a legend when most said his frame was too large for ballet. He was a powerful dancer rather than composed grace; it showed in higher _saut de chat_ and extended limbs. Rey knew of the wild romance and later separation, but he was in Leia’s office during late-nights with takeout. He even shows up to their dress rehearsals from time to time, claiming going to a show would be too strange.

“Do you want to know the role I see you in?” Leia says slyly. 

“There are twenty other principal dancers.” Rey exhales through her nose and tells her competitive nature to sit in the corner. “ _Pas de Quatre_ again would be an honor.” 

A lie, they both know. Anything other than the lead is not enough anymore. 

If Rey were honest with herself, not even the crown of Swan Queen will ever fill the hole, the ache, the need in her chest. It’s what drives her through each shin splint, each cracked toenail, each early class. 

Not good enough.

“I’ll keep it a secret for now,” Leia tells her before shuffling through the paperwork on her desk and handing a pamphlet to Rey. “We’re sending this out to the sponsors soon if you want to look it over.” 

Rey blinks down at the image of herself on the cover. She looks perfect, the arabesque attitude at a beautiful angle, but it’s not how she remembers the performance. It was a sloppy night; her nerves bundled too tight while she practiced her smile in the mirror while Paige wrapped her toe tight enough that she couldn’t feel that it was broken. Rey opens it quickly, bending the cover back to hid it against her thigh. 

_The Newest Principal Dancer of the New York Ballet_

_Rey Cissa from Jakku, Nevada is one of the youngest to be promoted to Principal Dancer at age twenty. Her life in ballet started late, but under the mentorship of Master Luke Skywalker of A.T. Academy ~~and support of her foster father Aaron Plutt~~ , she quickly proved herself a natural prodigy. Cissa joined the Corps de Ballet at seventeen, starring in her first solo two seasons ago during the third Diamond act of George Balanchine’s_ Jewels. _High praise came from both critics and the imperious Leia Organa, the current Artistic Director of NYB. Cissa is rumored to be performing to Tchaikovsky once again in the upcoming dates of_ Swan Lake, _the opening of the 2019-2020 season in late summer. Already she is familiar with the Pas de Quatre, but her wispy frame and sweet compassion could easily assume the role of Swan--_

Rey slowly shuts the pamphlet. 

“Well?” 

She snorts indelicately, thinking of her scrawny six-year-old self crawling through engineless cars, never imagining _dance_ would be her salvation. 

“It’s only slightly bullshit,” Rey tells Leia, “thank you for taking Plutt out of it.” 

“That man doesn’t deserve to be written about, let alone be the reason you are where you are,” Leia tells her sternly then sighs, “Though we had to keep my brother’s name for publicity.”

“I understand.” 

Leia shakes her head. “It’s okay. You can say it’s bullshit, too.” 

Rey laughs and tries to stifle it behind her hand. “It’s bullshit.”

“Alright, go warm-up.” Leia waves her out. “I’ll see you at auditions.” 

Morning classes are canceled, leaving empty studios and crewless music stations at Rey’s disposal. Stretching and regular conditioning are much more satisfying to her upbeat playlist than the continuous murmur of classical music. A regime of physical therapy needs to be scheduled before the season truly begins, or before the strained muscles of her right ankle lead to an actual injury. Each pointed toe in her canvas slippers ache. The ribbons of her pointe shoes stream over the hem of her bag, but she ignores the temptation and continues her slow, strenuous plies.

* * *

Rey dances the White Swan impeccably. She knows as she holds the last pose because even the president of the Board of Directors looks faintly impressed by the dance. Her extensions were perfections, each quiver of her arched foot was softly enchanting. The tension that was knotting her stomach never showed in the slight bend of her elbows and delicate looseness of her fingers. 

“I want to see her perform as the Black Swan now,” Director Hux says with a pointed look at Leia.

He’s not even looking at _her._

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Leia tells him firmly. 

Anyone else would be smart enough to back down but Hux-- 

“Humor me.” 

Poe squeezes her fingers once before moving across the studio from her. 

There is nothing seductive about her dance as Black Swan. It felt lightweight, and without impact, something performed on a high school stage in Jakku. A missed beat is neither alluring nor mysterious. There was a jerkiness between her positions, losing her effortless glide and gaining intensity in her frustration. Rey feels as tantalizing as a lioness learning to hunt, graceless, and ambitious enough to get the job done. 

Her breathing is shallow when she locks eyes with Poe, he looks disappointed. 

Rey whips toward Leia. Her mouth pursed, and Rey can feel tears burning the back of her throat. 

_Not enough._

She wants to lash out, to blame her connection with Poe, the oldest of the principal dancers, or lack of. There was no chemistry, nothing warm in her chest, not tug behind her navel. Rey squeezes her eyes shut, inhales once, and falls from her final position onto flat feet. 

Her Odette was angelic, but her Odile was as inelegant as a magpie. There was something, there has to be something, that she nearly grasped and achieved perfection. 

“Lackluster,” Leia tells Hux. The choreographers and other directors nod in quiet agreement. 

Rey pulls her lip between her teeth. She rotates her already over-rotated ankle slightly more, the pain locking any argument behind her teeth. They’re right. 

Hux tilts his head at her. “There’s potential.” 

His milky blue gaze sticks to her skin like syrup and dried sweat. Rey swallows her ire and looks past his shoulder as she continues to study her. 

“Her principal debut will be good publicity. Give the papers something more enticing than Swan Queen.” 

He says is with disdain, as if a thousand girls don’t dream of the role. 

“I’m not risking my reviews for your poor P.R.,” Leia growls. 

It shouldn’t sting, it shouldn’t feel personal, but Rey’s blunt fingernails gid into the base of her thumb. Leia and Hux finish their conversation in silent looks of blatant hostility. Rey leans onto her ankle as Hux raises a brow. 

Leia sighs and it does not feel like a victory to Rey. 

“You know this is the right move for the company after the harassment came to light,” Hux urges her. 

A disgraced teacher had gone to the Times, crying of wrongful termination with an offer of an expose of the company. His sordid allegations of harassment came to light, instead. Hux easily twisted the story, but a shadow was still cast over the entire studio when the article was published. 

“I fired Canady and offered the use of my lawyers to press charges to every dancer free of charge,” Leia snapped at any reporter in the weeks afterward. “His actions happened under my care, and I will never forgive myself.”

Now, Leia is frowning at the line of her hips. Rey straightens quickly. 

“Show the sponsors that all is not lost,” Hux murmurs, eyes flicking to Rey. “Remind them of the duality of our dancers.” 

“We’ll see. Until then, Rey is neither Odette or Odile and will prepare to stand in for both. Come to callbacks to show us improvement.” 

No. 

Not good enough. 

As principal, Rey would be more exposed to the public, the face of the company. Photoshoots, sponsored events, advertisements. Rey wanted nothing more than to be found, but first, she must be _seen._ Stand-ins aren’t thirty feet high in Times Square.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Rey mumbles, feeling more than a little dazed.

Rey dance on feet missing toenails while fooling the audience into believing each expression of movement is as fluent as the sway of her romantic tutu. Her best-reviewed performance was on a sprained tendon behind her knee. Critics called her things such as crisp and exhilarating. Her first pair of pointe shoes lasted a week because she couldn’t hide the blood-stained pink silk. Ballet had hurt her for years and turned into something beautiful, being called _lackluster_ will only make her the best dancer the New York Ballet Company has ever seen. 

But first, what does Leia _want_ from her? 

She stops and turns back to her.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Rey says, reckless and leaves her slightly breathless with her poor word choice. Indicatively looking away from Hux’s sudden grin, and directly at Leia. “Extra rehearsals, classes, anything.” 

The Artistic Director scrutinizes her for a moment, long enough for Rey’s stomach to know itself again. Was that not the right thing to say? For years Rey has waited for anyone who gave her praise to change their minds, to rescind, and to leave. She rakes her mind frantically, trying to decipher Leia’s expressionless features, desperately trying to pry out her thoughts out and say what she needs to hear to believe in Rey a little longer. Does Leia need proof of the lengths she would go to? 

Then Leia nods once and says, “I know, Rey.” 

The statement is surprisingly neutral, and Rey doesn’t know what to take from it, she dips her chin once. 

Leia dismisses her and asks Poe to continue with Jessika. Rey bristles slightly but moves for the exit. 

Hux slips into the dressing room behind Rey. Her feet hurt, and she wants nothing more to cut the ribbons of her shoes and free her ankles. He takes in her curled shoulders and awkward tilt of her feet. Maybe he knows that she doesn’t even know to begin giving her everything for a role. Earlier bravado churns deep in her gut. What lengths was she willing to go? Would it be worth it? With better posture, she stuffs down her humiliation. 

“Here,” he says softly in a rare moment where he is not completely unbearable. The business card he hands her is a thick cardstock of matte black. A name, address, and phone number embossed in silver. 

“What is this?” she asks with opens skepticism, _how much does it cost?_ Rey looks up at him and doesn’t like how her neck cranes to meet his eyes. Rey waits for the prince of his help to be named, bracing herself, but he only frowns at the card between her fingertips. 

“I wouldn’t say a friend, but he can help you prepare,” Hux concedes at last. “Be careful with that one. Even in retirement, his temper hasn’t gotten any better.” 

He leaves her alone to rejoin the other’s deciding parts of auditions. She looks back to the card, taking something freely never felt safe. 

Why was the name Kylo Ren familiar?

* * *

She leaves the Rose Studio and immediately feels conflicted to go to the address on the card right away or not, but she only has two weeks to prepare for this role. With her lip between her teeth, she heads in the opposite direction of her apartment. The studio she finds is tenebrous, bot domineering, and unassuming in its dark exterior. It’s past the posted hours of business, but the door is unlocked when she tries it, so she slips inside and hopes that means luck or fortune and all the other things Rey’s been denied. The sun settles on the fine curve of her shoulder blades, and the cool air of the studio is like the crisp tang of pomegranate seeds between her teeth. 

The lobby is sleek compared to the scruffy furniture at A.T. Academy. The front desk is neatly organized, with several sign-in sheets for various degrees of classes lining its gleaming surface, but its empty along with the waiting room. The smell of sweat was cleverly hidden under the smell of sandalwood, citrus, and the lingering sting of cleaning products. 

An inviting, dark leather couch sits squarely below a chiaroscuro of a ballerina expertly bent back with each arm reaching behind her in a skyless flight. The simple eight-piece suddenly reverberating along the deep slate walls is suddenly cut off, and she turns from the painting. There’s a movement down the darkened hall, Rey bends forward to make out who it was. 

“Hello?” she calls softly, not wanting to disrupt any late private lessons. The person who emerges from the shadows jars her. 

He has a familiar frown, she thinks. The dark hair artfully framing his face is sweaty as he brushes it back with one large hand, and his even darker gaze rakes over her. Not appreciatively, she notes with disdain, the way she had grown used to living in this large city, but like he’s sizing up an opponent. Rey feels ridiculously like a house cat being circled by a panther. His deep, cooling breaths are one’s she recognized at the end of a punishing class. Slipper’d feet stop an arms reach from her and she has to loop up and _up._

Her chin jerks with more defiance than necessary under his predatory scrutiny. Something wants her to allow him to think of her as soft, a serious error of judgment on his part, and to be proved wrong again and again. 

“I’m Rey Cissa.” 

“Yes. I know.” He looks confused. 

“I was told someone here could help me.” 

“ _You_ need a teacher?” he murmurs in deep, rumbling timbre. She pulls her brows together at his tone, how he sounds slightly mystified until he clarifies, but he still sounds… surprised, “The promising prima I’ve heard so much about.” 

She _doesn’t_ roll her eyes but looks away and chews on the inside of her cheek. “I was mentioned in one article. I’m still a no one unless I can land this role. 

Rey throws him a look, “and you should know it’s principal and not pr--”

“Semantics,” he brushes off. 

He is by no means smiling at her, but his lips seem softer now. There’s no indication to continue, but he looks at her like he’s interested, as if he could spend the rest of the night decoding her. The look makes her feel brave, scared, and maybe too confident. 

“I’m preparing for Swan Lake--,” she states, but is interrupted. Strange how she finds his intrusion as impressed rather than intentionally rude. 

“I’ve seen you in Pas de Quatre, why do you need my help?” 

Rey eyes him nervously, licking her lips at the way he jerked his chin at her. Surely, he must have seen the short clip attracted to the online interview from two years ago. Putting a face to an NYB patron was overwhelming, always odd to know which eyes were tracking her across the stage. 

“For the role of Odile,” she finishes and deflates with a dejected slump to her shoulders. His gaze turns calculating, perhaps weighing if he wants to take on the seemingly impossible task of shaping her into the Black Swan. 

“I see,” he almost sighs. 

He holds a hand out to her. Rey stares at each thick digit, immediately measuring their length compared to her waist. By the width of his shoulder, he could probably lift her with the single hand extended to her. A beat passes where she doesn’t move, and he begins to step back from her. Rey’s smaller hand darts out and grasps his palm, barely, and gives him a small smile. A strange man, for sure. Rey can’t determine his mood, his features giving her nothing, and his voice only confuses her. His vague indifference is unsettling.

“Kylo.” 

He drops her hand and invites her into his office. Rey walks behind him and wonders what a man with a small limb could do to help her.

* * *

Kylo’s office is nothing like Leia’s functional mess. The wall behind his magisterial desk is floor to ceiling cabinets that Rey can only assume are neatly organized binders and files on each of his hundreds of students. A costume catalog with a water ring on its cover has been tossed carelessly onto the corner of his desk, but not scrapes of fabric or misplaced platter tutus that Rey is used to. 

A faint glimmer catches Rey’s attention, and she notes something like broken glass embedded into the carpet under the wall of to the right of his desk. Above the glass is a professionally installed looking hook holding no painting. Rey chews on the corner of her lip as Hux’s warning clangs to the forefront of her mind, but she brushes it aside. She knows how to tiptoe around a temper when not deliberately confronting on. 

The other two walls are glass, overlooking two different studios, both dark in the late hour. Rey feels out of place in the minimalistic, polished space. Her pink leggings are too bright, too rundown. There’s a small hole in the hem of her sweat-damp top that she never noticed until this precise moment. She can feel the weight of her dark circles she carefully covered for auditions, the makeup running thin. 

“What is your schedule like?” he asks, muffled by the towel he runs over his face. 

“Most weekdays I wake up at eight and have breakfast. Then, I’m at the studio for morning class for an hour and a half, sometimes two. One or two-hour gym sessions at the Dogpound. Lunch.” She ticks off each basic activity that takes up most of her time with her fingers. “Last season, I had rehearsals between four and seven hours during the week, twelve hours on Saturdays. I have dinner around eight or nine and go to sleep after that.” 

He jots something in shorthand on the paper he retrieved from his desk.

“When do you go to physical therapy?” 

The question makes her jump from her mental checklist. “What?” 

“Your right ankle.” He nods to her foot crossed over her knee, subconsciously keeping it elevated. Her thumb pressed into the muscle right behind the bone above her heel. She slowly removes her hand. 

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she admits as she places her foot onto the floor. “I have an issue with a tendon behind my knee as well.” 

Kylo makes another note, his mouth a firm line, then presses his pen to his lip as he comments, “You should at least keep the ankle wrapped.” 

Before she can bite back that she’s felt fine, he gestures to the darken studios. “Classes are from ten to seven. Would you prefer morning or evening sessions?” 

“Both,” she says immediately, never one to let an opportunity go. Kylo raises his brows at her, and she backtracks quickly. “Five of your past students are studying at the Joffery. Another three are in the Royal Ballet, where you used to dance.” 

The list of accomplishments credited to the First Order Ballet Academy went on and on. ABC, Boston, Paris. Despite his younger age, Kylo Ren was a ballet master whose students have excelled ever further since his retirement. She skimmed several articles during her walk, gnawing her thumbnail and skipping rumors and slander against his name. In hindsight, focusing only on the good may have been a mistake, but she wanted to know as much as possible. The temper Hux warned her against is scattered in the glass at her feet and spoken about by journalists three years ago around the time Ren injured himself. 

She looked down at the scuff mark on her sneaker. 

“I’ll take whatever you can give me. Hux gave me your card for a reason, and I’m a hard worker--”

“Hux?” he sneers with such open disdain that she flinches. Rey looks up with wide eyes and blinks at the intensity pinning her to her chair across from him. That was the wrong thing to say. Kylo expresses more at this moment than the entire time Rey had been in his studio. His lip slightly curled, and he leans back heavily into his chair. “How do you know him?” 

Rey suddenly feels like she’s being interrogated and decides that the truth is the best thing for her to say. 

“He’s the president of my board of directors and an absolute squeaky grocery cart of a man,” she mutters and looks away from his penetrative gaze. Rey isn’t completely sure what answer he was looking for, but his mouth twitches. “Hux is the reason I lost the part of Odette. Black Swan was his suggestion, and I have two weeks for improvement before callbacks.” 

“You’re one of the most innately talented dancers of this generation, how could your audition possible be… inadequate?” he asks in quiet disbelief, struggling to label her with such a word. His voice doesn’t lose its edge, but it’s so soft that Rey wants to reach out and trace it.

A hot flush blazes up her throat that she quickly swallows down. The thing about critics was they didn’t _truly_ know the world of ballet, they weigh the storytelling, the music, the set; they don’t know how crushing a misstep, or an ill-timed leap was. A ballet master would, could trace a mistake back and watch it unravel an entire performance until the principal was fighting tears and managing to keep her smile in place. The unexpected praise makes her hands tremble, wanting to smooth the wrinkled fabric over her torso to see if she could feel the heat that warmed her core. 

“I was perfect,” she argues quietly, unable to look at him. “Until I had to dance again as Odile. Leia called it lackluster.”

“She’s very good at being disappointed in people.” 

Rey frowns at him, but he’s looking at something over her shoulder, his turn to refuse her open stare. 

“Do you know her?” 

“To say the least,” he replies in a half answer. His eyes have cooled considerably when he looks at her again, but something sparks and gleams so sharply that Rey reminds herself to breathe. “Will you dance for me?” 

“Of course,” she says instantly even though she’s exhausted and feels overstretched. 

The side of his mouth curls, the closest she’s seen to a smile, and he rises to move around his desk with a gesture to follow. Rey pulls her pointe shoes from her bag and walks into one of his studios with him. She sits as he sets up the music and begins to wrap her toes properly. 

“I don’t expect much tonight, maybe two minutes of your interpretation of Odette and Odile to find the difference and formulate how you can improve.” 

He paces one wall of mirrors with his crossed over his chest as he deliberates with himself. He seemed impossibly large in the dim light and the mirror reflecting his measured walk. Each step and roll of his foot was careful and in control enough that it became distracting. Rey struggled with the scant inch she had on the _ideal_ ballerina body, just a little too heavy for the shorter male dancers and harder to lift, turning each performance a will of strength. She was sure Kylo never had any difficulty with his size. His unclassical handsomeness would easily fill the role of Von Rothbart or Romeo or Albrecht. He was broader than any other dancer Rey’s seen, would be capable of lifting her with ease, higher, more often. 

Rey centers herself, smiling softly and shifting her center of gravity as she prepares for Odette. Kylo plays Tchaikovsky simplified into piano keys for her. He doesn’t tell her which part he wants her to perform, either testing her skill or knowledge. She keeps her smirk from showing as she easily falls into line with the music. 

Odette’s death isn’t technically challenging, but the grief and heartbreak most show in every line of her face and arms flowing behind her. The result of Odile’s seduction. Rey’s earlier audition was Odette’s naivety and charm, room for neither in Kylo’s studio.

Dancing for hundreds with the notes of a full orchestra reverberating in each breath is proving not as difficult as dancing for one man. 

Kylo watches her with a hip against the bar and precision in his eyes that cut into each extended movement. Her skin is hot as she works to not look at him standing too close and pretends that he’s just another audience member. Once she sinks to the ground and leans onto the leg stretching out behind her, she bends as far back as her spine permits her. With some satisfaction, she knows the arch of her back is far deeper than the painting in Kylo’s lobby. 

“They’re fools not to give you White Swan.” 

His voice breaks through the strange limbo of haze and concentration. The quick rise and fall of her chest, as well as every other muscle freezes before she pulls herself back up. The words were a soft murmur that felt more like a daydream than her reality. 

“Would you like me to spin thirty times for you know?” Odette’s sorrow weighs too heavily on her mind, turning her voice breathless instead of serious or snappish. 

“I don’t doubt your ability. Show me Odile.” 

Rey only reaches her second arabesque when he stops her, thirty seconds after the music started. 

“The Black Swan is to be seductive. Self-assured. Not prancing around on the legs of a newborn fawn.” 

Rey gapes at the _nerve_ of this man and moves gracelessly to stand in front of him.

“That’s not a critique, that was an insult,” she seethes, _not_ that he appears to be listening as he scrubs a hand over his face. 

“We have a lot of work to do,” he says, eyes flicking over her flushed face. 

Kylo stops the music and leaves the studio, back to his office. Rey is left with the sound of her heavy breathing and throbbing in her ankle. _A fawn,_ she repeats to herself, more angry than upset. After struggling out of her pointe shoes and into her comfortable sneakers, she nearly runs into his chest when he returns. 

“We haven’t talked about your fee,” she says and takes a step back, so she didn’t have to look _up_ at him. 

“Leia will compensate me,” he says and doesn’t elaborate before he grimaces at her ankle. “Sit down.” 

She does, gingerly, wondering what he’s up to. Rey thinks he may want her to stretch again, but he kneels with her and takes her right calf in his hands. She gulps awkwardly when he pushes her leggings up to her knees, now his hands _on_ her skin, cool and firm and callused. His thumb and middle finger touch around her ankle when he rolls her foot one way and then the other. Kylo unlaces her shoe without permission and pries it off. She wants to pull away, but he already knows the truth, dancers exude beauty across the stage, but they carried it on bruised feet. 

“Is your second toe broken?” he asks when he sees her two toes still tapped together. 

“It’s longer than my big toe.” She shrugs, knowing he will understand that her second toe caused her foot to carry her weight unevenly. Pointe shoes make a ballerina’s weight ten times as heavy and balance all of it on their toes. A few broken bones over a career aren’t uncommon. Rey broke her toe four months ago, felt the _pop_ at the beginning of her morning class.

“There’s not bone shards or splinters?” 

“No, I got it x-rayed once I got out of my class.” 

“Good,” he dips his chin, raven hair spilling over his forehead. “None of your nails are cracked.” 

“On that foot,” she quips with an easy smile. 

Rey had always felt more at ease with instructors or trainers; there was no embarrassment over her knobby feet. She pulled her left foot back, bending her knee, and leans back on her elbows while he continues his assessment. The ceiling above her is smooth, dimpled with recessed lighting. Her skin is sticky after the endless day, but her loose shorts over her sheer leggings and tank top will be light enough for her walk home. 

She’s considering taking a cab when she realized Kylo has paused. Rey looks back at him as he swallows. Sitting up so quickly, she nearly rips her foot from him only to have his hand jerk it back towards him, jostling her entire body. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. 

“What is it?” she asks him, pulling her foot gently until he loosens his grip. Rey leans back again, her posture feeling like it’s moments from melting into the floor. 

“Sorry,” he says again, the muscle of his jaw tenses once, twice. “It’s nothing.” 

The tip of his ear is pink through his hair, but she’s not sure why. She wonders what he’s blushing about, not her. He was the one to call her coltish. Rey’s fuming again before she can help herself and looks away from him. Principal dancer at twenty and he called her _a newborn fawn._ She wiggles away from him a bit, noticing a damp spot in her panties and presses her thighs together, fighting a blush. _When_ did that-- his thumb digs into the arch of her foot and something between a moan and a gasp rattles from her throat. Rey slaps a hand over her mouth, horrified by the sound, and looks to see Kylo’s raised brows and slack mouth. 

“You’re a lot better than my physical therapist.” 

“I’ll warn you next time,” he chuckles. 

The next swipe of his thumb makes her lashes flutter, and she gives in to the temptation to lay back on the floor. By the time he pulls gauze from his first aid kit, she’s nearly asleep, and soreness rubbed away. Her head lolls to the side to the mirrors. There’s not much else to look at other than their reflection. Even with her stretched out on the floor and him hunched over her leg, their size difference couldn’t be more obvious. Her previous anger drains out of her, not much use being angry at an overgrown tree, but he’s more than welcome to rub her feet to get back into her good graces in the future. 

Rey yanks her shorts down when she notices the fabric rucked up around her hip, smoothing it down her thigh as Kylo finishes wrapping her ankle. He’s efficient, maybe tighter than she would have done herself, probably the reason he insisted on doing it himself. Kylo puts her shoe back on but lets her lace it back up. 

“You’re twenty?” 

Her head tilts at the question and knots her laces. “Yes.” 

“You should wear darker colors,” he suggests with a pointed look at her white, taken top and light blue shorts. “Perhaps then you wouldn’t look so… _girl._ ”

Kylo’s brows pull together at his word choice, not quite coming out how he meant. The message was clear enough. Rey snorts and takes his hand, looking at his black pants and dark top matching his assortment of beauty marks. Black would only drain her tanned skin. 

She smiles up at him, finding his height to be less bothersome the longer she’s with him, but no less imposing. “Thank you for the fashion advice and my ankle. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Seven-thirty. Here, take this.” Kylo hands spare keys to her, telling her which unlocks the front door and his office, in case he’s ever running late. He doesn’t want her waiting outside when she could be warming up. 

“Goodnight, Master Ren,” she says with some semblance of the formality she’s used to at the Rose Studio. Something unfamiliar glint in his eyes but is gone before she can place a finger on it. 

“Goodnight, prima. Get a good night’s sleep.”

She doubts it with how husky his voice is and remembering his hands on her skin. Rey laughs under her breath at how ridiculous he makes her feel and steps back out into the warm air of summer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo turns her so she can see her profile, making her think of the figurines tucked away in jewelry boxes, something precious and coveted. Even on pointe, her legs aren’t as long as his. Rey’s back is arched, her leg extends higher than she thinks is necessary but she holds Kylo’s pose somewhere between arabesque and attitude. Her leg becomes a smooth curve around Kylo’s hip. She holds one hand above her while the other is out, looser than her training is telling to do. Muscle memory holds her limbs tightly with the look of effortlessness, but Kylo demands sincerity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen folks and babes and readers, you gotta strap in for this one, rey's backstory is canonlogically SAD so lets dip our toes in that and by the end of the chapter who knows maybe she'll orgasm
> 
> also, i doubt i'll be able to update daily, i only just noticed that it got 69 subscribers super fast (?????) and got to say "haha nice" so I thought this might be an adequate treat

It takes three days for Rey to notice the changes. Movement is less stiff, no more jerkiness, but something is still holding her back. Kylo steps in every other position, standing behind her with a hand on her waist, using his other hand to correct her. Her arabesque looks perfect but he meticulously takes her pose apart and respositions her to suite the needs of Odile. 

He pulls her knee up until her thigh strains to keep her held out behind her. “Higher.” 

She wearing gray leggings, the darkest color in her closet. Her thin top does nothing against the chill of air conditioning. Kylo’s brows pull together as she looks past her to their reflection. 

His hand on her back burns as her shoulder blade shifts under his palm. “Relax your shoulder.” 

“Leg, prima!” he barks when her knee drops two inches. 

Kylo turns her so she can see her profile, making her think of the figurines tucked away in jewelry boxes, something precious and coveted. Even on pointe, her legs aren’t as long as his. Rey’s back is arched, her leg extends higher than she thinks is necessary but she holds Kylo’s pose somewhere between arabesque and attitude. Her leg becomes a smooth curve around Kylo’s hip. She holds one hand above her while the other is out, looser than her training is telling to do. Muscle memory holds her limbs tightly with the look of effortlessness, but Kylo demands sincerity. 

He moves his hand from her waist to her lower back, placing his other on her lower abdomen. 

“Breath out,” he says and tilts her spine just _so_ before her leg begins to tremble beneath her. “Hold this twice, _modéré_.”

She squares her shoulders as he steps away to start the music. They aren’t listening to Tchaikovsky as the work on her various forms. Odile is performed at a true _rapide,_ slightly faster than the music Kylo’s chosen for her. He has her slow down to perfect her movements. His choice is more sensual, the notes rounded and drawn out, but the eight beat is universal. 

She steps, her ankle lengthening. Once, another step, again, her leg higher. Almost enough, but not enough. 

“Adequate.” 

“High praise, Master Ren,” she mutters. Gone now is _innately talented_ while she’s working under him, once he even called her _good._ The word sent an unfamiliar warmth down her spine, and she’s been striving to hear it again. 

“Wrap your ankle, tightly, when you go to the gym today.” He scowls at her. “You need to stretch before class, take your shoes off.” 

A high, girlish giggle trills from the waiting room as Rey unties her ribbons. Kylo takes a steadying breath to physically keep himself from rolling his eyes. His uncharacteristic irritation makes a laugh huff under her breath. 

“Students are arriving early for once not that they get to practice in the same space as a prima.” 

“Principal,” she corrects and pulls her leg high onto to the bar. With her arms over her head and she pulls herself into a stretch and asks, “ Who told them I was here?” 

“I did,” he says matter-of-factly and stares where her hip bone is exposed. Rey frowns, not sure what he wants her to correct. Kylo blinks as if remembering something and continues, “I wanted them to know in case their classes were delayed, or if my time with you overlaps. They know helping you with Swan Lake is important to me.” 

Her jaw loosened while he talked, words sinking deep, nobody made her a priority before. Her youngest memories were being shuffled around foster homes, dance, and Luke. Even after he adopted her, giving Rey her own room, he still had other students. Just as Leia had other dancers to balance. Nobody had focused on just her before, something Rey had called herself selfish for even wanting. She pushes down the overwhelming anxiety bubbling up her throat, wanting to reach his expectations for her. Except, it’s not Kylo she dances for, she reminds herself. 

Her face pinches, nose wrinkling in confusion. “They why are they early?”

“Your autograph,” he guesses with a shrug. 

“I’m a nobody from Jakku,” she scoffs and lets her foot slap against the floor. 

“You’re a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. They dream to dance on the same stage as you,” he says seriously with the same mystified tone of their first meeting. “You lack confidence.” 

Rey takes a step back, bumping into the bar behind her. 

“I am an amazing dancer,” she argues. Snapping feels like the only way to respond to most things he says, but this lacks heat. 

“A good dancer and a confident dancer are two different things, prima.” He waits for her to bite, to tell him he’s wrong. Kylo’s hair shifts with the slightest movement of his head when she doesn’t. He knows he’s right. “You need to be both.” 

“Should I--,” She frowns and tries to look around him, she would look dramatic if he wasn’t so wide. Rey doesn’t see anyone trying to peek into the studio. “Should I meet them?” 

And say what? Rey asks herself, to work hard? Even your hardest isn’t good enough, so keep practicing? Rey isn’t a motivational speaker, not sure how to push these young minds forward. Kylo may have an inkling of her insecurities, but this is a different monster.

“You don’t have to today, or tomorrow. Practice may do you good. Sponsor galas are coming up.” 

Rey bites her lip and allows herself a moment to sulk. “They were never mandatory for me to go before.” 

“You’ll enjoy yourself,” he assures her quietly. 

Her eyes flick up to him as she releases her lip. “Did you like going to them?” 

“Not even as a boy.” Before she can ask, he says, “I have plans tonight that… slipped my mind, forgive me.” 

“That’s fine, I could use a night off.” 

She shrugs over her sudden panic of losing even a minute of practice, but she could use the sleep. 

“You’ll be at the Rose Studio, then?” 

“Yes,” Rey huffs and gives him an unamused look. 

“I figured as much. Elevate your ankle with a pillow when you go to bed.” 

She obeys with years of training with one specific answer. “Yes, Master.” 

Rey looks up to say her farewells, but whatever goodbye she crafted turns ashen on her tongue when she catches him searching for something in her face. 

“Do you want to go out the back?” 

She doesn’t want to take his offer, it feels like pity. 

_”yes.”_

* * *

After her gym session and her stomach heavy with lunch, Rey steps into Leia’s office when she returns to the Rose Studio. She longs for a small break between Kylo, class, gym, physical therapy, Kylo, class before her schedule tightens further with rehearsals. _If_ she gets Odile, Odette feels lost to her unless Leia can single handedly strange the board of directors. Confidence doesn’t come naturally to her, but Kylo seems to think he can mold her into the Black Swan, so she’ll take what she can. 

“My son wants to have dinner with me,” Leia says wistfully, something unexpected in her tone, and without greeting Rey. 

She knew of Ben Solo of course, met him once after shorting starting her classes with Luke. Her ten year old self doesn’t remember much other than Leai’s dark hair and eyes, Han’s gangly height, and pale skin ill suited for the Nevada sunshine. With his education abroad at boarding schools, there was never a time for their paths to cross again. Rey hadn’t head much of him after he had gained entrance in the Paris Opera Ballet School’s senior program year ago. 

His parents don’t mention him much, beside the time Han had grumbled about the lengths Ben went to make his own name and distance himself from the Skywalker legacy that drastically changed the ballet world. Anakin and Padme Skywalker had both been principal dancer in European and Russian theaters. Upon retirement over the age of forty, Padme was granted the title _prima ballerina assoluta._ An archaic term used in the romantic period of Itaty. Rey wonders since Ben had actually _seen_ his grandmother dance would think of Kylo’s use of the term toward her. 

Luke and Leia, with the weight of their parents legacy, loved dancing but preferred teaching as masters. He revolutionized teaching in the west coast, eventually opening his own academy on the outskirts of Las Vegas, while Leia worked toward running her own company. She had an single-minded ambition in the eighties and nineties, pouring her soul into her work and tearing anyone in her way apart. 

Luke had encouraged Rey to become a professional dancer, Rey considered it a calling. A sign perhaps to let go of her past and build a future, a career that could be established at the Nevada Ballet Theater. When he later suggested that her future was better in the hands of _Artistic Director Leia Organa_ of _the_ New York City Ballet, Rey _flinched._ Adoptive Aunt or not, Leia was a force not many trifled with. Women directing was rare, but she did her job and she did it with such vivacity that there was no one brave enough to steal her crown. The company may very well fall to pieces when, if, she retired. 

When Rey was in Corps, she overheard that he opened his own studio. Only the smallest bits of information made their way to Rey and she never took the time to piece them together. People outside her small world didn’t make an appearance much, once they left they were gone.

“That’s nice,” Rey smiles softly at Leia, “Tell Ben I said hi.” 

Leia’s musing became distant when he head snaps toward Rey. “Would you like me to introduce you to him?” 

Rey recognized her matchmaker look in an instant, remembering how Leia nudged, pushed, her towards Poe Dameron. Lack of chemistry has been an issue for Rey on more than one occasion. 

“Aren’t we cousins?” 

“Technically, just have Luke unadopt you or something,” Leia says suggestively, but her playfulness saps from her just as quickly. “Not that Ben would know what to do with a _nice_ girl.”

Rey wasn’t sure if the compliment was forward or unintentionally backhanded, so she accepted it graciously with a grain of salt. Not that she has any remote interest in romance or dating, having very little time to do so. Frequent trysts occur between dancers and fall out as gracefully as a dropped ballerina in the second act. 

“I hope you have a pleasant evening,” Rey says and moves to get up. 

“Your physical therapy is working for your knee? Sleeping enough?” 

Rey smiles with a mock eye rolls at the familiar hovering. “Yes and yes.” 

“And your broken toe?” 

Rey winces. Of course, Leia knew. Probably read her hospital records, maybe even recorded and stored in this very office. 

“It’s fine. Not healing as quickly as I want but--,” she shrugs with a _what can you do?_ look. 

“I want you to take the night _off,_ without sneaking back into the studio.” Leia gives her a level look that locks any of Rey’s retorts in her throat. 

“Call backs are only a week and a half away,” she says. 

“You need two feet to dance,” Leia reminds her with a growl, then leans close, whispering in a tone with the veiled seriousness of her previous warning, “I would kill Hux before he kept you from a role.” 

“Thank you, Leia.” 

Rey sighs and feels her shoulder drop as she buries her face in her hands in a too brief moment of exhausting relief. There’s almost an overwhelming feeling of being _enough,_ but it’s fleeing and soon gone. 

“Take the night off and elevate that damn foot,” Leia barks after her.

* * *

Leia went as far as barring her from evening classes, forcing Rey to take her night off seriously. Her apartment in the day time is unsettling with her laundry piled high and her meager plants looking dry. She loads her Netflix queue with films and shows she never made time to watch. 

There’s a knock on her door and she has to think if she had called for takeout. 

Another knock, more urgent this time. 

Rey opens door, her confusion melts along with feeling in her arms. The hair along her neck raises despite the head coming through her open windows. Is this what hope feels like? 

Hazel eyes look back at her. Rey’s world lurches off its axis. 

“Mom?”

* * *

Rey didn’t learn the read the same time as other kids, took ages for the words to stop bouncing around one the page. Her advanced motor skills had always been a hindrance and a blessing. She came home from preschool, alone on the bus, had known the stops by the color of the flower boxes rather than signs. When she got home, it was empty, with a note left for her. Her momma knew how hard it was for her to get the words to stop moving around, so she waited for her to get home to read it for her. She hoped it wasn’t a list of chores she was supposed to do before momma came home from work. That night Rey cleaned up their little studio apartment. When the sun sank, the glare of Vegas lights on the horizon, she ate pop tarts that were crumbled in the foil and nearly stale. 

The next day, she woke up in an empty bed that was cool as if her momma didn’t get those few hours of sleep between jobs. Rey always woke up when her momma kissed her on the temple and tucked herself in beside her, but she didn’t wake up at all last night. Tomorrow was her day off though, Rey would see her then. 

She got herself ready for school, yanked a comb through her unruly hair and pulled it into buns small enough for her fingers to manage. She finger painted that day, bright yellow stuck under her nails. Her teacher sighed when she had to ask where her lunch was again. 

The next day, Rey started to worry. She went to the apartment next door like her momma told her in case anything happened while she was out. 

Maz answered the door, her eyes huge behind her glasses. 

“Are you here to bring your mother’s rest? She’s two months-- nevermind, child.”

Rey didn’t know what she was talking about and asked Maz to read her momma’s letter for her. She just wanted to make sure her chores were done so her momma wouldn’t have to work on her day off. 

“Oh, child.” 

Fitting how her mom would slip another folded note under her door.

* * *

_”Rey,”_ Kylo snaps at her without any heat. Worse, Rey things she can hear the concern in his tone. “Where is your head at today?” 

When she stepped into his studio in pink leggings again and late for the first time, he frowned and gestured with this chin for her to start at the bar. They worked with posturing again when she couldn’t focus on stage presence. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” she says distantly and takes a shuddering breath. Rey corrects her legs so it’s aligns with her arm, but not holding her core. Her eyes feel tight, dry and itchy, after her first sleepless night. 

“Is something wrong? Did something happen at the Rose Studio?” He has that sneer again that she recognizes, he must be thinking of Hux again. 

“No.” She unfolds from her pose, her body feeling lank and heavy and weirdly uncoordinated. “I think I meet my mother last night.” 

“I thought you were an orphan.” There is a question in the statement.

“Maybe. I was abandoned when I was… four, five? I think, I can’t remember.” 

Her mind focused on so many things that day, all of them pointless. The yellow paint on the sleeve of her shirt, the dry heat of Nevada spring, the silver frames on Maz’s sunburned nose. The color of her mother’s eyes were gone, washed away with time. 

“What happened?” 

“She, this woman, she showed up at my apartment and I— and I slammed the door in her face.” 

Before the first tear can track down her cheek, Kylo’s thumb brushes it away. His arms wrap loosely around her like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Her fist clutch the front of his shirt, his embrace grows heavier when she leans on him. Her forehead rests against the hollow of his throat, Rey tells her story against his skin. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she finishes in a whisper. 

“Your mother threw you away like garbage.” 

“She didn’t,” Rey argues but her voice is too thick to sound convincing, too tired to defend her. 

He rips himself away so quickly that she sucks in a breath, strangely unbalanced without him. Rey blinks up at him when he grabs her face, fierce and gentle. His eyes are hard and reverent and leaves her so, so confused. 

“She did. Now you’re not enough, nothing will ever be enough, that’s why dance. So dance.” 

She nods against the roughness of his palms and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she just inside the door of the Rose Studio. The scent of sandalwood on her skin, sweat beads between her shoulder blades. She blinks against the harsh, fluorescent lighting. She feels like Kylo might have said to skip her morning class, which is absurd. Of all the things he could say, did he really expect her to listen and take a day off?

In a daze she walks past Leia’s office. 

_”Rey Cissa.”_

Rey thinks her name would be much more terrifying if she had a middle name, but it still feels like confronting a bear. 

“You’re consulting with _Kylo Ren_ ,” Leia spits the name out as if she just sucked venom from a snake bite. She is upset, clearly, but there’s a hopeful look on her face like she’s talking about her son. Rey blinks at her. 

“I— yeah. Leia, I saw my mom last night.”

A terrible lump tightens her throat and she wishes, somewhat weakly, that she was with Kylo again. Rey lifts her hand with the phone number. Had she ever put it down since it was pushed under the small gap of her apartment door? Had she clutched it in her hand through her exercises in Kylo’s studio? Her hand starts to shake again as she looks at the paper. Luckily, Leia ignores it and pulls her into a hug, more firmly than Kylo had, actually holding her. Rey doesn’t sink into the embrace like she wants to, looking over Leia’s shoulder at her slip of cherished paper. Nausea bubbles up her closing throat. 

“Have you told Luke?”

“No, I didn’t think— I need to focus on auditions. I’m late for class.” 

Rey untangles herself with a yank and shoves the blank paper into her pocket.

* * *

Two days pass and Rey sleeps in a hotel.

* * *

Rey and Kylo study videos of Viktoria Tereshikina and Diana Visheva, both onstage and private rehearsals. She is nearly on the edge of understanding their mix of playfulness and self assurance that she needs to develop, and quickly. Auditions are a week away. There is panic under Rey’s tenacity. 

They don’t talk about Rey’s mother. 

Kylo doesn’t mention Rey’s new clothes either. Buying them felt necessary when she didn’t want to return to her apartment. He yanked off a price tag off her black shorts this morning. 

“Give me five minutes freestyle with Odile in mind.” 

He holds up a practice skirt and waits for her to peel off her shorts. Kneeling, he holds the band open for her to step into. She finishes tying it around her new black leotard, the color still daunting to her. It’s comfortable even when the various straps covering her back was difficult to wrangle herself into. Black is Odile’s color as well as Kylo’s, maybe it can be hers as well. 

In the past, her freestyle are poised, contained, and sweet. Odile is a wild thing that Rey can’t grasp no matter how much she practices, not a role to fall into as she does with Odette, but a role to consume her. 

“Are you a virgin?” He asks brusquely, saying nothing of her flawless twists and jumps. She almost felt like herself, the lightness in her chest sinks with his question. 

“No, I am—” she immediately starts to argue out of principal and steps forward, perhaps to claw his eyes out for ask. She winces at his raised brow and unimpressed stare. Her embarrassment curls in her stomach and rises to her cheek. Rey looks to the ceiling, wishing he would ask about her knobby feet or comment on her coltish legs again. 

“Yes,” she whispers with resignation. 

“Awaken you sexuality, become Black Swan.” 

Rey hates how he says it like it’s an easy accomplishment, like she didn't come to him for his help already. 

“ _How_ might you suggest I go about doing so?” she demands scathingly, placing her hands on her hips. “Take up Hux’s many offers?” 

He glares at her for a moment, not bothering to hide to contempt for the man she mentions, then shrugs off his temper with infuriating nonchalance. His eyes are softer when he steps up to her, fingers untying her skirt. 

“Well.” His hands are on her waist, knees bending until their eye level, then he’s on his knees completely. He pulls the skirt down, slowly, dragging his fingers down her legs. “You could touch yourself.” 

He folds the skirt up onto his lap while she scoffs at him. 

“Good girls don’t do that,” she says primly, sitting across from him and gingerly peels her pointe shoe off her broken toe. The grimaces at how the tape chafed and left a blister she hadn’t noticed. 

“What?” Rey asks and huffs a small laugh at his face where the smooth facade of indifference has slipped from. “They don’t.” 

He just shakes his head at her and pulls her other foot into his lap, undoing her ribbons. 

“I don’t think you know what good girls are up to.” 

“Oh yeah,” Rey says with mock seduction, pushing teasingly against his chest with her toe, “You want to tell me?”

Kylo chuckles quietly, lips still curling at the corners when his dark eyes snap up to hers. Tension leaves her so suddenly her arms feel limp at her sides. His hands wraps around her ankle and yanks her to him. 

“Do you want to be a good girl for me, Rey?” he asks softly. She blinks, parting her lips to reply, but he beat her to it. “Put your slippers on and give me another five minutes before you go, _croise en avant_.”

* * *

Rey’s hotel is almost directly in between the First Order and the Rose Studio. She eats room service for dinner with a frown at the price but not minding as much as she should. Rey desperately needs a distraction as she thumbs through the TV guide, fingers fumbling when she sees _Adult Programing._

Touch yourself, he said. 

She is _not_ watching porn, especially not cheap, hotel porn. Rey glances at her phone, knowing a countless number of videos were a webpage away. What does she put in the search box? Her main experience with men and women were other dancers. Was ballet dancer a sub category she could find? Was strong an option, or maybe broad shoulders?

She thinks of black tutus and dressing rooms or maybe dark corners backstage and how the wood of the studio floor feels against the back of her thighs as she stretches. Rey flushes at how quickly her thoughts descend just looking at her phone with the remote in her other hand. She turns the TV off and moves to brush her teeth and ignores the way her thighs brush together, the skin sensitive. She hopes a new silk nighty would be a balm, but the material is slippery and distracting against her crisp sheets. In the dark, she tucks herself in and stares at the ceiling. She knows how to masterbate of course. The few flimsy attempts were clumsy, hollow somehow, leaving her more frustrated than anything. Her knees knock together as she tries to rub the sensation again. 

Rey presses her lips together and closes her eyes. 

Touch yourself, he murmured in his deep baritone. 

But _where?_ Rey starts at her breast with a little gasp, kneading exploratory. 

She yanks her panties down, more eager than before. With one hand learning how to gently pinch her nipple, she moves her fingers in slow circles. She’s on the edge of understanding, why people like this and wondering why doesn’t do it more often. Her fingers are wet and sticky, but she has the sudden urge to call Kylo and show her what a good girl she is. With a groan she rolls over, her loose hair falling over her face and caressing her cheek. Her knees press into the mattress deeper. 

Her mouth falls open as she presses on finger into her center, coaxing a moan from her lips. She adjusts her hips just so and knows she’s being sloppy, but she’s closer to something. There’s frustration with how her wrist can’t bend far enough, the pad of her fingertip barely reaching the spot within her that makes her hips buck. Trying harder and pressing her forehead into the pillow, she adds a second finger. Rey whimpers. Her hips move with a jerkiness she recognizes from her earlier attempt at Odile, so she slows her pace until she can roll smoothly. Will she ever not think of ballet? The tight bound of tension of her stomach loosens even as she removes her fingers slowly, circling again. 

She groans again, the noise feels dirty and natural and confusing, so she continues to alternate until the tension returns and somehow worse and better than before. Rey flops on to her back, continuing, a little relentlessly, chasing herself over the edge. Her finger run along the line of her neck, distantly wishing for a mouth to be pressed against her skin. 

With not witness in the dark, no one to see her unravel this way, she moans more freely. Rey likes the noise, how it murmurs on her tongue and travels along her teeth and leaves her parted lips. 

_”Kylo.”_

_”Calling Master Kylo Ren.”_ chirps under her. 

The orgasm she nearly reached evaporates. _“No, no, no.”_

The phone doesn’t cooperate with her fumbling grip, she tries touching it with just her palm, her fingers too sticky. She wipes her hands on her nighty, humiliated by the streaks of wetness.

“Rey? Are you okay?” he pauses. “You’re not at the studio are you?”

“I—No, I’m at my hotel.” 

“Why are breathing so heavy? _Why_ are you at a hotel?” His voice is deeper over the phone.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call you. I was just—”

“Answer the question, Rey.” 

_Which one?_ her mind helplessly asks. 

“Is something wrong with you apartment?” he asks after she doesn’t say anything. “I have a guest bedroom. I can come get you.” 

“I’m okay, I was just—”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” he points out, “Never had sex, never learned how to lie. So what were you _just_ doing, Rey? Tell me why you’re breathing like that.” 

“I was—,” she swallows _’just,’_ frantically thinking of something a well-adjusted adult would be doing in a hotel room. Then, in a moment of pure genius, she blurts out, “I was doing what you told me to do.” 

“Yes?”

“I was touching myself.” 

Wait.

“Good.” he murmurs, the baritone of his voice breaks, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s good, Rey. Did you come?” 

“No,” she says, nearly pouting, because she _almost_ —

“And how did you call me?”

“I put my phone down and I must have pressed the siri button somehow.” 

_Stop talking immediately,_ she tells herself when her mouth keeps working without her permission. Except, it’s almost nice talking about it, strange and unfamiliar but she wants more for some reason. She glares at her old iphone, held together with crafty use of electric tape, and the traitorous cracked button. 

“And said my name?” the smug bastard _purrs._ She can nearly imagine his face, one of a cat that caught the canary and stole the cream and stretched victoriously out in the sun. “How were you touching yourself?” 

“I was,” she pauses, gesticulating wildly around her empty hotel room as if she could pluck words out of the air, “touching myself.” 

“Elaborate, Rey.” 

“Um, I liked rubbing circles.” 

“Are you doing it now, Rey? Are you rubbing your pretty little clit with your cunt-slick fingers? Or do you have a pillow between your thighs?” 

“What?” she squeaks with a whimper, “No, no, of course I’m not, Master Ren— Wait, are chopping something?” 

Kylo laughs, but it doesn’t feel he’s targeting her ego with it, merely amused. The humiliation which colored her chest with a hot flush shimmers with the sound. 

“Deflecting, you don’t need to be embarrassed,” he points out, “and yes I’m cooking myself dinner. You’re making it a… hard process.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him earnestly, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“You are so bad at this,” he chuckles again. “You can call me anytime.”

“Do you have a guest?” she asks before she can tame her curiosity. Rey wants to slap a hand over her mouth, the action precisely two minutes late.

“I wouldn’t be asking how you got yourself off if I did. I’m rather private. Possessive, too, or so I’m told at least,” he says with a contemplative hum, “Would you like to be my guest? I’ll give you enough privacy to figure out how you like to touch yourself. The bathroom even has a detachable showerhead.” 

“Why would I need a— I mean, no, thank you, but I paid through the weekend.” 

She sighs at her ceiling, suddenly hating her groupon addiction.

“I’ll see you Monday morning,” he says, “and Rey?” 

“Yes?” 

“Keep practicing. Call me if you need anything.” 

“Yes, Master Ren,” she mumbles, rubbing a hand over her hot cheeks. 

“Good girl.” 

She hopes he hung before he heard could hear her whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just kidding, feel free to yell at me


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey thinks she can allow herself to seek comfort in someone she trusts, a steadfast presence the last two weeks. His fingers move over her shoulders, tracing over her bare skin, connecting her freckles like constellations. Closer, that’s what she needs and presses herself fully against him. Her forehead presses against his neck, her breath on his skin. When she tucks her pelvis carefully, the apex of her thighs grinds in askance against his hip bone, he understands. 
> 
> Rey looks up at him, color in her cheeks. Kylo threads his hand in her hair at the nape of her neck, kissing her temple once and ducks down to whisper in her ear. 
> 
> “Don’t let anyone hear you,” he says quickly, the words rushing out on a sharp exhale, “Your moans are for me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i can't update daily
> 
> odile: [reaches 100 kudos in two days]
> 
> me: i have to give them the thigh ride chapter immediately

When Rey arrives at Kylo’s studio the following Monday morning with pink cheeks she tells herself its from the unnaturally warm rain and walking over. Her ankle is wrapped under her baggy pants with her change of clothes in a bag slung over her shoulder. 

The music is louder than she was expecting and Rey secretly hopes he doesn’t want her to dance to it. Heavy and poignant with an unnamed emotion in the notes she’s not familiar with. Her knowledge of classical music is extensive, but she has never heard this particular mix of cello and violin. Rey can’t place the artist nor title. 

She creeps forward, wanting to see Kylo teaching another in his natural habitat, instead she doesn’t know why she’s so surprised to see Kylo _dancing._

Rey knows obviously that Kylo can dance, has danced in the past at the Royal Ballet as principal at an impossibly young age. He had been trained far more extensive than her own twice a week lessons as a child. Her own talent was innate, earning pointe shoes two years into her education. Ballet must have consumed Kylo’s entire life to be at the skill level he is at. His _pas jete’s_ are higher than she’s ever seen. Men hardly ever go onto pointe and a physical impossibility for a man as large as Kylo to go so high on his toe. His mind is completely blank and unaware of anything around him. Rey sits down, curling up right next to the door and rests her chin on her knees to watch him. 

The control she sees on a daily basis is not gone, but slipping it’s leash the longer she watches. His hair is pulled back into a half bun, still sticking to the back of his neck. He doesn’t so much as dance but attack the choreography. She is decidedly _not_ staring at his thighs.

There is… something _off._ Kylo’s dancing is liquid smooth and rich in violence, but there is an instability only a trained professional would see. This is not a performance, but a challenge onto himself, a battle cry to every broken piece of himself. 

He lands heavily on his bad ankle. Rey flinches at the hiss between his clenched teeth. Kylo’s head whips toward her and freezes as he sits some ten feet away. 

Thinking quickly, she blurts out, “You’re very beautiful, Master Ren.” 

His chest is moving so rapidly that Rey thinks she might scare him if she stands over him. She snatches the black towel on the floor next to her and crawls over gracelessly. Between his sprawling, endless legs Rey leans back on her heels. 

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” Rey whispers and gently runs the towel over his damp temple. 

“I’ve thought the same watching you,” he murmurs. 

She wants to roll her eyes, deflect, and downplay the statement, but her hand runs down the column of his throat with only the barrier of the towel between them. 

“I’m not as powerful,” Rey mutters. 

“You will be,” he tells her and straightens his spine. Kylo’s taller than her even as she’s sitting with her feet beneath her, and the action pulls their faces closer. In the habit of watching him move, she notes how the curve of his mouth goes slack as his lips part. She gets distracted by the wet velvet of his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. 

“Do you— I mean, can I—” 

“Yes. Anything,” his voice is as ragged as his uneven breathing.

“Okay.” 

He frowns with his entire face, brows pulling together and mouth pursing with a wordless question, when she leans away. Quickly, she pulls his foot into her lap and delicately pressing around his ankle until he winces. From there she can begin to rub the ache away. 

“My knee hurts when it rains, too,” she explains, “and you’ve been very good to me, it’s the least I can do.”

He nods, eyes distant, and a soft _thank you_ rumbles under his breath.

“How was your weekend?” Kylo asks to distract himself from her thumbs working the first knot of muscle out.

“Satisfying,” she tries to say cryptically while maintaining her demure air but ends up laughing. His small smirk at her flush is worse than outright teasing. She swats his foot.

When she releases his ankle, Kylo pulls them both up with an infuriating ease. He hesitates before stepping away to start the music, giving her enough space to pull her pants off her full body unitard. Rey had started to get tired of the chill in his studio and pulled long sleeves on earlier in the morning. She slips down and rolls her hips into a horizontal split. Each foot is pointed and flexed in freedom before putting restraining them within in her pointe shoes later. 

“We’ve gone over Cecchetti and French arabesque, I think we should warm up and focus on Russian styles today. There’s four forms rather than five or the French _ouvert_ and _croisee._ ”

Rey knew, but liked when he thought out loud, it was rare for him to do so and kept happening more and more frequently. 

He shows her the four styles, pointing out the differences between Cecchetti Method and those taught in the Vaganova. Rey mirrors him on pointe, stepping into each pose with a new frond effortlessness. Self-assurance is still out of reach, but she was more relaxed with herself. 

“I know your company doesn’t target Russian techniques but this forces your muscles to move differently.”

She repeats the fourth arabesque trice more. The leg position is the same as the third position, but she can’t arch her back as sharply as necessary. Kylo steps behind her before she has to ask, hands wrapping around her raised thigh and waist. Her shoulder blades rest on his chest when she finally achieves her pose. 

“Which do you prefer?” she asks as his hand trails down her leg toward her knee. 

“Meself?” Kylo looks at her in the mirror in confusion, as if no one had bothered asking him before. “I trained in the French methods through my studies, but my mentor originally taught at the Bolshoi, so I’m familiar with both.” 

“Yes, I already knew that grand ballet Master Ren,” Rey rolls her eyes in false exasperation and turns to look at him. His mouth is tight, in amusement rather than irritation. One day she might ever coax a smile out of him. “Which do you _prefer?”_

Rey steps forward, placing her arm out with her supporting leg and half turns away from the pretend audience behind the mirrored wall. She lifts her leg, feeling a strain in the deep arch of her back and her turns her head back to the mirrors. Rey does it again on pointe rather than a turned out ankle, satisfaction pulling the corner of her mouth up as she corrects the position. 

“French, classical movement,” he finally answers. “Do that again.” 

Rey grimaces and wonders what he saw that he didn’t like. Her shoulders bunch as she steps out and lengthens her ankles once more. 

“That’s enough,” he says and Rey’s knee nearly gives out beneath her. When she straightened, she turns to face him rather than continue watching him through the mirror. A mistake, Rey looks away from the intensity on Kylo’s face and scrambles to say something. Something that doesn’t circle back to how she masterbates, then blushes anyways. She feels exposed, how he knows more about her, maybe too much. It’s unbalancing to her. 

“I had a difficult time learning Russian, but I think I had a block against it, knowing I would never dance in such legendary theaters.” 

He huffs at her self-doubt. “How many languages do you know?” 

“English, French, Russian, and Spanish.” His brows raise. 

“How impressive, Miss. Cissa.” 

“I never considered being a professional dancer until I saw the view from the stage in the Gran Teatre del Liceu.”

“The Barcelona Opera House.” 

Rey hums once, looking off into the middle distance between them. “I wanted to look at that every night.” 

“Why didn’t you.”

“I needed to stay in the states. Then Luke, I mean Master Skywalker, suggested I audition for his sister’s company. I couldn’t refuse.” 

“Because of your mother,” he states. 

Rey’s eyes flick to him and away, not denying it. 

“She’s your weakness. You’ve come so far without her, imagine where you can be if you let her go.” 

She hates that he sounds right. Rey had been so focused on escaping the last vestiges of Odette still clinging to her like summer sunlight. She refuses to think of the picture of a woman standing outside her apartment, thus far. Her mother hadn’t been holding flower. Rey always imagined her holding flowers. Handing them to her, tossing them on stage, putting a potted plant on her window sill like they used to. 

The paper was still blank no matter how many times Rey pulls it out of her pocket and wills a phone number or words to appear. City light would stream through her windows, illuminating the truth. Nothing would appear. 

If she unchains her mother from her heart would she still be the charming Odette? Or would she confront the dark, rolling anger that lays just out of sight, hidden by her naive optimism? Her ambition will be laid bare like snarling teeth. Will she be consumed by it, by her grief, and simply fade away?

“How?” Rey asks after a long moment stretches between the. 

“Reinvent yourself.” 

Odile calls to her. 

Kylo brushes her hair back, his fingers skim over the shell of her ear. 

Rey lifts her chin.

* * *

When Rey first auditioned for the role of Swan Queen she had focused on it with unrivaled intensity until that was the only possible future for herself. It was a need, as necessary as late nights in the studio and learning to balance on a broken toe. She would shine in a white tutu and feathered headdress like a beacon at center stage. The audience would love her, she would be _perfect._

In the two years of waiting for another production of Swan Lake, Rey only imagined herself as Odette. Odile had never been a possibility, the thought so dark that it repulsed her.

With only two weeks to wrap her head around it, and a day left before callbacks, Rey is understandably nervous. Her hands flutter, her wrist bending and straightening through out her evening class. Her instructor had to remind her twice to keep her pelvis tucked for her plies and core exercises. She skipped lunch that day, remembering what it was like to be hungry centered her, forced her to remember her goals. Rey set a reminder on her phone to eat dinner, something heavy in carbs for the next day. 

"Do you like teaching?" she asks Kylo as she stretches, briefly glancing at his bad ankle. Would ballet ever be behind her, the call to perform on stage forgotten?

"When students are willing to learn." 

She hums and shifts her legs so her right knee is pulled forward in pigeon pose, opening hip flexors. He straddles her leg and presses her hips down lower. Kylo talks about having to rid himself of his own idiosyncrasies so he doesn't lead the next generation into the same habits. His voice has always been low rumble, but it's softer when he speaks of his students. Rey knots of the outburst he has at parents and even his older students, but never children. His youngest is six, a prodigy, whom he loves working with. The main task is to make pupils use their brains and bodies for themselves, a challenging balance between master and student. 

“Roll over,” he murmurs. 

Rey looks up at him as his hand curls below her knee and presses it into her chest. Her inner thigh burns, but her ankle and knee are behaving for once. Beneath him Rey’s stomach growls, Kylo gives her a flat look and storms out of the studio. He returns with an apple in hand and a bottle of water that looked like belonged to him, and scowls at her. 

She opens her mouth to argue that she will not dance on a full stomach but the look he gives her makes her teeth click together. Sullenly, she eats the apple over crossed legs. 

"There's still work to be done," Kylo states as she stands next to her, "but Odile is yours. I see it, Leia will see it, unfortunately, Hux will see it." 

"We—," Rey starts then frowns up at him. Kylo looks past his shoulder and down at her before sitting beside her, her head still barely reaches his chin. This isn't any easier for her to say when he’s so close. "We only discussed the two weeks."

"When you start rehearsals I doubt you'll have any time to spare, I understand if you don't want to continue with me." He says easily but she reads the disappointment in his eyes. 

"That's not what I meant." Rey says softly.

"What did you mean, prima?" 

"Can we extend—," Her brow puckered, she didn't want an expiration date between them like before. Kylo is her bridge to Odile. Rey had said she would do whatever it takes, so for once she swallows her pride. "Will you continue being my teacher, Master Ren?" 

He gives her a half smile, "I've been waiting for you to ask."

“Can we discuss your charges? I don’t think my salary—”

“Rey,” he interrupts, his hand gripping her shoulder. “I’ve never charged you.” 

“Oh.” 

_Oh._

* * *

"Auditions are closed," Hux sneers with such open contempt that Rey glances up at who ever he could possibly speaking to. Her heart stops and charges forward as if to make up for the lapse.   
At first she only sees flowers and hazel eyes. Her hands are shaking again and this can't possibly be happening. Relief should be coaxing her muscles into loosen not fear coiling into knots. Rey can't breathe. 

In the front third row of Lincoln Center sits her mother.

She smiles and it's Rey's smile. Her mother was nearly the same age as Rey now when she left- abandoned her with no more than a note and coffee container full of grocery money. 

"I'm here in morale support for _my_ prima," Kylo says smoothly while somehow still scowling, sidestepping the president of directors. The glare he gives Hux makes Rey look away from it and by mistake, down. He's in a suit. Rey has only ever seen him in loose clothing, never all black, tailored lines. He still moves with unmistakable grace in controlled steps.

She shakes her head and glances back at… an empty chair, the smell of honeysuckle and baby's breath the air, cloyingly sweet. The sudden warmth seeps from her bones, a chill claws up her back.

Kylo nods at Leia, tension between them doesn't dissipate when she returns to cool greeting and surprisingly doesn't kick him out. Leia doesn't return to the papers she had been pouring over but watches him closely with a guarded expression. 

Rey doesn't get up, too busy with wrapping her toes on stage with the other principal dancers. Kylo ignores them, crossing his arms once he reaches her. He looks broader, if that's even possible. Rey swallows and tries to focus on the loose ribbons around her ankles. If she stretches out her leg it would brush against his ankle. 

"You're nervous," he states with that slight confusion she heard in the lobby of his studio two weeks ago.

Rey glances at the still empty chair. I'm losing my mind, flits briefly. 

"Of course, I'm nervous," She means to snap but its hardly audible. There was more pressure as principal, more so than a soloist. In Coups, she was able to blend in, synchronized her movements with others. This was her first principal role she could be throwing away. Poe and Jessika are watching him intently but pretending not to. Even Finn a row the lead costumer is outright glaring at his back. Rose is next to him talking to her sister, another dancer, both sneaking glances at Kylo's too tall form seeming to blot out the stage lighting above her. 

"You're not alone," he says quietly, tapping his toe gently against the sole of her foot when she lost herself somewhere middle distance between her and the third row. It takes a moment for her vision to focus and look up at him. 

Rey's brows pull together, her thoughts snapping to the heartbreaking loneliness in every line and movement of his dancing. She's never seen any of his other teachers before or after hours while she's in his studio. His studio that's always dark and empty, save for them and the music and the art. 

_Neither are you,_ is on the tip of her tongue. 

“Come with me,” he says and outstretches out his hand to her. 

“I’m fine,” she bites out, her mouth snarling when the reach the privacy of the sidestage. She rubs at her reddening nose, her throat burns. 

“You’re shaking.” He seems to chew on the inside of his cheek as they consider each other before he nods once and tells her, "I'm here for you." 

"Thank you," she says weakly and lets him embrace her, strong arms holding her together. 

Rey thinks she can allow herself to seek comfort in someone she trusts, a steadfast presence the last two weeks. His fingers move over her shoulders, tracing over her bare skin, connecting her freckles like constellations. Closer, that’s what she needs and presses herself fully against him. Her forehead presses against his neck, her breath on his skin. When she tucks her pelvis carefully, the apex of her thighs grinds in askance against his hip bone, he understands. 

Rey looks up at him, color in her cheeks. Kylo threads his hand in her hair at the nape of her neck, kissing her temple once and ducks down to whisper in her ear. 

“Don’t let anyone hear you,” he says quickly, the words rushing out on a sharp exhale, “Your moans are for me now.” 

Rey pulls her lip between her teeth to psychically bite down on the noise, his hand traces her throat and covers her mouth. 

He shifts against her, pushing his thigh against hers. Rey jumps when his hand cups her ass, but her lashes flutter shut when he guides a slow rock of her hips. Everything about him is firm, his thigh no exception. Her first true movement of her hips makes him tighten the grip in her hair. Kylo muffles a small grunt against her. He tilts her head to the side and softly traces her pulse with his lips. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve got you,” a mantra, a low throaty groan as she grinds against him. Rey throws her head back, her moans soundless. 

“You’re going to be amazing, sweetheart,” a benediction now. A low rumble under her palm and her jerk in her pace makes him smile. Damp fabric rolls under her hips, the friction delicious. He kisses up her throat greedily, biting at her frustrated noises and leaving pink dappled skin in his wake. He shuts his eyes for a moment, basking in the way she moves against him, seeking her own release against him. Rey claws at his shirt, panic widening her eyes when he removes his hand over his mouth. 

“I want to see you face when you come,” he whispers and shakes his head when her eyes start to close, “look at me, Rey.” 

Her limp trembles with a whimper. She murmurs incoherently as she finds her release. He tells her something in French, maybe Italian, but she’s lost to him, to anything as her legs tremble. Kylo smoothes her hair down as she catches her breath. 

He looks devastatingly perfect, not a hair out of place, her wetness not even showing on his black, wool slacks. 

“Let's get you changed,” he tells her with a kiss to the temple. 

She listens to him in a daze, following him to an empty dressing room, and peeling her damp leggings off as he waits in the hall. He walks her back to stage with a hand on her lower back, murmuring luck into her ear.

The chair her mother occupied is empty, just as the slip of paper is still blank and everyone is suddenly very interested in everything other than the pair with distance growing between them. Rey retightens her ribbons, tucking the ends from sight as Kylo passes Leia, talking too low for her to hear. He sits a few seats from her, ignoring the way she assesses him before turning to talk to one of the choreographers.

Leia has been working since last season, through summer, for each production, starting with Swan Lake. The creative team worked through decisions on the music, set, and costumes in several production meetings leading to this point. Finn and Rose were here to take down measurements, making immediate alterations once roles were announced. All costumes are made in house. The lighting designer is also watching, along with photographers and videographers. The set still needs to be finalized and build off stage, then delivered and rebuilt. Rehearsals. Final proposals on music needed to be approved. 

Leia would be doing this five times for five different performance, each only lasting for only three days. The woman was a general among an army of dedicated artisans. 

Rey tries to shake off her nerves, somewhat successful when she meets Kylo encouraging nod. She reminds herself she would be doing this again and again for the rest of her career. Her ambition doesn't loosen the tightness of her stomach. 

Dancing for an audience is easier when they don't recognize faults for what they are, they see clear effortlessness. They don't see the months of work and endless hours. Every person before her can pinpoint every missed beat and cue. How the speed of her pirouette does not sync with the music, which she is expected to do thirty two.

Her mother wouldn't. What's the point of leading someone to find her if they didn't recognize the work she had to do. Her mother is no better than any other blind patron. Rey doesn't long for any of them, doesn't yearn to perform for a sole person. There is an unnamed rage that has been asleep but cracks an eye open at the realization. What's the point? Why does she need to be enough for anyone? If the title of daughter wasn't enough, then why would principal, prima? 

The ache is gone, something stirs in it's place. Is she enough for herself?

"Nothing will ever been enough, that's why we dance." 

Kylo's still watching her though another is spinning and twirling, and Rey square's her shoulders. 

"Rey Cissa and Poe Dameron." They call at last. She pressed her lips together. Rey's attention lingers on the empty chair, close her eyes, and let's her mother go.

* * *

Rey dances the Black Swan near impeccable. Not perfect, but she’s satisfied with herself for the first time in a long, long while. The choreography is not the same from two weeks ago, it's more complicated. Both Rey and Poe are familiar with it, falling more in ease with each other over the past two weeks of evening rehearsals before she goes to Kylo. Friendship and comradery come easy between them. Being partners is new and the seduction needed on her part made him laugh more than once. He would tickle her arms and waist, making her fall onto flat feet. They sneak food into the studio as the perfect sequences needed for callbacks. Poe was already casted as the Prince once two years ago, but he is older with new competition in the company, He shares her like minded avidity to keep his restore his crown and place one on her brow. 

Rey never noticed how opposite she spends her time between the two studios before now.

They only asked for half of the pirouettes to gage her timing and how she holds herself while struggling with her body telling her to _please stop spinning._ Her own fluid movements she knows she learned from Kylo, witnessing them in his own dancing. Rey's wrist and arms mimic those of Odette's wings, but they are more coy, beckoning. The series of _pique tour de dehors_ are a slight variation of Odette's as well from act two. Another series of _echappe saute_ , versions of high arabesque travelling backwards.

She even winks at Poe as she removes her hand from his before he can kiss her knuckles, smiling as she pulls back. Shoulder blades drawn together, every joint supple and arms outstretched, with an ease she didn't know before Kylo. 

Already she was Odette, now she twists her thinking into making the guileless girl into her enemy. Poking holes in her charm and innocence, letting Odile make up for what she lacks- convincing the Prince that she is his Swan Queen. 

Does it matter if she's the villain if she wins? With Odette forsaken, Poe kneels at her feet, it's a heady feeling. Her breathing is heavy but she's unaware of the exertion, of the sweat at her temple. 

Rey's cheeks flush under the heat of the stage lights, she can clearly see the audience seating. She leans back in her final pose, her back parallel with the padded stage and Poe still beside her. 

Eye contact with a patron is something she has never done, but finding Kylo is simple. She has felt the weight of his gaze the entire time, a strange mix of distracting and reassuring. Pride is there, as any Master, but there is something darker, warmer than Rey doesn't recognize. He shifts in his seat as Leia clears her throat discreetly. Poe pulls Rey up and bow at each other with barely contained mirth. A small disbelieving laugh is shared between them. She knows Odile is hers before Leia speaks, before Hux has a chance to pick up his jaw. 

"Thank you," Leia tells them with a secret smile of her own, attempt at diplomacy for any girl that comes after Rey. With their dismissal, they don't run backstage, but walk briskly, because they are professionals. Then once of sight and Rey is able to scream, quietly, behind locked lips and a clasped hand, she throws her arms around Poe. They jump and laugh, and Rey cries openly, wiping tears away frantically. 

"Well done, prima." Rey jumps and finds Kylo leaning against a door, watching them celebrate. His eyes flicker like they did earlier when Poe presses a quick kiss to her cheek and shies past him. He still may have to dance with other for another Odile and Odette, but Rey can is free to leave.

"If that's what you're capable in two weeks then the entire audience will be weeping at your feet with the Prince," Kylo says with his quiet amazement, his thumb brushes across her cheek. Rey's not sure if she's even crying anymore and can't help but lean a little into the gesture.

"Does this mean I earned another night off?" she laughs as she steps back. Rey wipes the sweat from her brow, she feels even dirtier next to the crisp lines of his suit. 

"Not a chance," he teases with a small smile and licks his lips, "but I'll buy you dinner afterwards."

* * *

An Intermission:

"Hey," Poe says and elbows Finn as measures from the dancer's armpit to waist. "You ever get that feeling that two people really need to get it on with each other?"

Finn straightens, thinking back on his misplaced crush a few years ago. There's a flurry of thoughts. Finn's anonymity in Corps, finding individualism in the costume department, Rose- his cheeks heat a little. Then he looks up at Poe's distracted face. He's always distracted, head in the clouds. If he's not dancing then he's thinking of ballet, sharing that single-minded focus principal dancers needed to maintain their tedious lifestyle. 

Finn looks over to where Poe is looking, cocking his head at what he finds. Huh. 

Kylo Ren has his back against the door but with his impossibly long torso, he's still leaning toward Rey. She's looking up at him, eyes large and glistening with stage makeup. The retired dancer doesn't look to have a single ounce of humor, but Rey is laughing anyway. Her shoulders don't have the slight curl that Finn had always found endearing, rather she's standing tall. But Finn is stuck on the fact that she's laughing, something he rarely sees during the weeks leading up to auditions. Kylo is smirking a little which is weird, but whatever he says makes her nod enthusiastically and steps away from him. Rey waves at him to follow, which he does. That grin that gave Finn the creeps widens to a genuine smile that is half way nice, as he looks down at Rey's turned back in front of him. 

"Any particular reason why you're staring directly at Kylo Ren and Rey?" Finn says as they both watch them leave, hardly watching where they're going as they talk into low voices. 

"Probably a good thing they can't be on stage together. I'd be out of a job, for one." Poe shrugs and let's Finn continue his own work with a shake of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 comment = 1 serotin rush 
> 
> originally all of kylo's dirty talk was in french so let's all think about that for a bit


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Turn around.” It’s not a request. 
> 
> “Yes, Master,” she grumbles and grimaces at him before turning. The fabric brushes against her collarbone as if he were putting on a necklace and she wrinkles her nose. When he pulls it higher, just above her eyes and she jerks back into the solid wall of his chest. 
> 
> “Trust me,” he says again, his voice rasps against her ear. 
> 
> She relaxes a little and he takes it as a sign to continue. Her fingers flutter at her sides when her vision goes dark and his large hands go to her hips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peace is a lie, there is only passion.  
> Through passion, I gain strength.  
> Through strength, I gain power.  
> Through power, I gain victory.  
> Through victory, my chains are broken.  
> The Force shall free me.
> 
> _The Code of The Sith_

She feels ridiculous in the mirror. Whatever she felt on stage for auditions is gone replaced by pink tights. Rey yanks her dark gray top off, leaving her sweaty in a light sports bra. Everything is wrong. Her extensions are off, she can’t bend her wrists right, her shoulders feel tight. 

_Not enough._

Rey stops, breathing heavily and licks her lips. Once she closes her eyes, she focuses on flexing her fingers. While reminding herself that rehearsals have yet to start, that she hasn’t _officially_ earned the role, Rey has lost something. On top of her own belittling thoughts, Kylo is being surprisingly unhelpful and frowning at her again. He walks to her in controlled movements until he’s in front of her with his arms crossed, her skirt sways. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks. 

“I probably shouldn’t,” she bites back, her irritation catches in her throat as he kneels and reaches below her skirt. Large hands grip the fabric around her right thigh and _yanks._

“What are you doing?” her voice echoes in the empty studio as she jumps. Her tights are torn from one leg as he stands. 

“Turn around.” It’s not a request. 

“Yes, Master,” she grumbles and grimaces at him before turning. The fabric brushes against her collarbone as if he were putting on a necklace and she wrinkles her nose. When he pulls it higher, just above her eyes and she jerks back into the solid wall of his chest. 

“Trust me,” he says again, his voice rasps against her ear. 

She relaxes a little and he takes it as a sign to continue. Her fingers flutter at her sides when her vision goes dark and his large hands go to her hips. He guides her to what she assumes in the middle of the studio. 

“Dance.” Again, it is not a request but this time she shivers. 

Kylo’s studio is smaller than at the Rose or the stage at the Lincoln Center, but she has a vague notion of where the mirrored walls are. The music makes her jump. She counts the eight beat twice and steadies herself with a deep breath. Rey steps onto her toes and dances. 

Blind and in the dark, she doesn’t worry about lines or techniques. She’s not quite herself the music guides. It’s not peaceful or composed, but passionate. This war in her mind forces herself to be better against her will. Change, growth, adaptation, evolution in the space of a song feels impossible, but it’s happening and resolve settles in the back of her mind. Within the energy and fervor and ecstasy Rey seeks strength, needs it to seek her potential. No longer shepherd by the stale ambition of others, without sight Rey feels the power conditioned into each of her muscles with endless classes and knows now she can rely on. Weakness lays in her heart and that, too, will be cast out. 

A victory over every stagnant piece of herself still waiting and clings to the past. Without the years of fighting her own insecurities and confidence, the triumph of herself would lose all meaning. Rey claws and fights until she wins dominion over each pirouette. Suddenly she is afraid that this may be temporary or illusionary, each darkens though will return to her in the dead of night. What is victory without superiority? Rey is a prodigy, a principal, a _prima,_ she is Odile. Her weaknesses are asphyxiated with clenched fists.   
Perfect strength, perfect freedom, perfect destiny. This is freedom.

Hands clamp down on her waist as she freezes in a Russian arabesque she perfected in this room. She strove for perfection, and now she will be rewarded. Gently, Kylo turns her until she faces him. Her breathing is shallow as her foot touches the ground and he pushes her shoulder. Rey grips his bicep as her spine bends backward slowly, his hand splayed across her back in support. Her breath hitches as his ear is pressed against the rapid beat of her heat. Rey’s hesitantly threading her fingers through his hair. There is an urge she has to resist, to grip the silken tresses and _tug._ The noise in the back of his throat makes her fingers twitch. 

Kylo shifts until his lips press softly against her skin, along the swell of her breast. She feels his delicate, his hands run down the length of her back as he holds her. His hands are so large that she can feel each of his fingers spread and flex. 

“That’s enough, Rey, that’s enough,” Kylo whispers against her heart, reverberating against skin, mind, and soul. He must know how weak her knees become because he gentle eases her to the floor. Her body feels heavy and buoyant and effervescent. Her freckled skin feels flushed from exertion and deeps, lips parting as she tries to catch her breath. 

Rey didn’t want enough. She was enough on her own, but then what should she want?

_Want_ is no longer a fleeting thought but a consuming emotion she can’t decipher. 

His hands are firm on her waist. 

What would Odile want? What would she do to achieve it? 

She wants _him._ She wants dark studios and the skin of his hands on her. She wants his barely controlled power of his mind and body, that devotion and love for their art— she wants— 

“Kylo,” Rey exhales and arches her back. _”Please.”_

His nose skims her collarbone before his fingers lift the band of her sports bra, carefully lifting it over her chest and pulling her hair out of it. He twists the fabric around her wrists above her head. 

“Keep your hands still,” he rasps. 

“Yes,” she whimpers and presses herself closer to the touch of his mouth on her bare breasts. Rey whines when he pulls back. 

“Yes what?” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Stop pouting, Rey.” 

Her mouth twitches as she tries not to grin at his domineering tone and is quickly lost to the sensation of his lip tracing her jaw. He pushes up her skirt, the soft tulle bunching on her stomach, and Rey writhes when his hands slip into her leggings. Kylo traces the shape of her over seamless panties, she regrets how tragically practical they are. He doesn’t seem to care as laps her nipple in between his teeth. 

The slightest pressure of his fingers makes her hips buck. 

“I’m going to let your hands go and you’re going to show me how you like touching yourself while I find out how tight your pretty cunt is, okay?” 

Rey melts. “Yes, master.” 

Her hands are free and he moves to pull her leggings off completely, brushing a kiss against her hip bone. Hot breath washes over her overheated skin. The skirt shredded and suddenly she’s bare to him, her back curves off the body warm wood. Ballerinas are trained to move in smooth strokes, to invent lines with the illusion of effortlessness. Occasionally the effect of quivering is needed to convey an emotion, Rey never _shakes._ Anticipation paints slickly along with the tremble of her thighs, heat clutches her nerves. 

Kylo stands and pushes her feet apart, kneeling between them. His hands grip her knee to spread her legs apart. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

Her muscles relax until he touches her again and she jumps with a small, startled laugh. Kylo kneads her inner thighs to press them further apart as her own small hand snakes down to rub her clit. Rey decides that she would trade all of the audiences in every prestigious theater for a hot lick of Kylo’s gaze as her finger’s move. Her legs ache sweetly, an ever-present need to pull her knees together that she works to ignore because she wants this. She wants the goosebumps that trail up her legs with the drag of his palms. 

Rey moans wetly when he presses his middle finger against her. She feels too tight before his palm can touch her, too. 

“Stop.” 

Rey keens and chest heaves as she pulls her shaking hand away. _His_ hand doesn’t stop moving, so she tilts her hips to capture as much friction as she can. She blinks against the light as he pulls her impromptu blindfold. 

“You wanted to look me in the eye again, didn’t you?” she growls, near seething at being denied, “seems selfish.” 

“I don’t think you’re ready to see how selfish I can be.” 

Her heart pounds _everywhere,_ the pulse pushing heat through her core. The build leading to the fall so overwhelming she’s lost in herself, back arching and trying to center herself around Kylo’s groan above her. He brushes the hair out of her face, a thumb wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye. All of her breath hitches in her throat, barely passing through her parted lips in a soundless moan. 

“Too much,” she whispers in a sharp gasp, helpless and fluttering. One of her heels digs into his thigh, wanting everything he can give her and fearful of it. 

He bends over her, lacing his hand to hold the back of her neck. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart, let me feel how you let go.” 

“Yes, Master Ren, _yes_ —”

His nose is close to hers, the space between them filled with their shared breath. Broad shoulders curl to be closer to her. 

_”Fuck!”_

Rey’s curse startles both of them, her hand scrambles along his shirt and clutches the fabric as she clenches tightly around his finger. She pants, naked, and blissful under him. When she opens her eyes, Rey’s grin is a mere flash when she reaches between them, pressing her lips to—

The corner of his mouth, a miscalculation. His head turns as if his full mouth means to chase her as she jerks back.

“I”m going to be late. They’re posting positions today,” she whispers, the concept horrifying her, a flush drains through each nerve ending at the realization. 

His hand snakes up her spine, into her hair and tugs until she faces him fully, no longer looking up at him through her lashes. Her hazel eyes nearly slip shut at the sensation. The newness, the vicissitude, consumes her and fills her with a dull roar of need. He can feel how she trembles when he leans in, knowing anything more than his lips pressed to the side of her jaw would be too much. Would only unravel her.

"I'll— tonight." It’s a garbled growl, thick with- His eyes slip close as he leans his forehead against hers. Kylo takes a steadying breath and Rey can feel him compose himself in the way muscle shifts under her hand. "I'll see you tonight?"

Rey catches the shiver that runs down his spine as she steps away, holding her skirt to her chest.

What would Odile want?

"Of course, Master Ren."

Odile would want him on his knees.

* * *

For once the anticipation and nerves coating the halls of the Rose Studio didn't affect Rey. Dancers were late to their classes to crowd the posted roster. With the air conditioning broken, the heat made Rey loose and graceless as her sneakers slapped against the linoleum floors. 

She's skipping her morning classes and taking herself to her own celebratory brunch. Rey already canceled her session with her personal trainer. Swedish pancakes and powdered sugar is all that stands between her and an appointment with her physical therapist. Then there's Kylo. 

Weaving through anxious dancers, Rey's quiet contemplation pulls her into a reverie. Kylo and his perfect etiquette across the table from her. Offering her wine and switching to his salad fork during their entrée so she didn't feel embarrassed. Kylo and the easy way he pulled her entire life story over a three-course meal. He offered nothing in return. Deflected her questions so easily that she didn’t notice until he walked her home and bade her goodnight. 

Kylo and his fierce belief in her. It rang in every adjustment and praise, never telling her that she's wrong, only that she could be better. How _élan_ echoed in his dark timber as a reminder to perform both emotionally and physically. The way their lazy French would fill the space between them. 

Kylo and his thick hair and disarming gaze and his _hands-_

Before her thoughts could knock the breath out of her, Poe lifts her over her shoulder and spins. Rey laughs but swats at him to put her down.

"Hey, why is your face all red?" Poe asks as he set her back on her own feet.

"It's hot," she says, all forced nonchalance and bobbing throat. 

"Come on, no need to be bashful." 

He ruffles her hair in an affectionate gesture that always tugged at her chest. Poe threads his fingers with her and pulls her down the hall. Finn sees her before the Tico sisters do. 

"Congrats peanut," Finn says with a wide smile and presses a kiss to her hair. 

"Did I get it?" 

The excitement she had tried to savor blooms tempestuously and suddenly as the Tico's grab her arms. They haul her to the roster tacked to the bulletin board near Leia's office.

Swan Queen/Odette …… Paige Tico  
Prince Siegfried …… Poe Dameron  
Black Swan/Odile …… Rey Cissa

"Of course you did," Kylo's voice makes them all jump, everyone around Rey taking a half step back as he comes from Leia's office. Rey nearly _ran_ to the Rose Studio, and Kylo still managed to look entirely composed and unrushed in his rolled-up shirt sleeves and slacks. The door is shut firmly behind him. He waves her forward and she comes to his side, just out of earshot from her very nosy friends.

"I didn't mean to surprise you, Leia asked me to come and talk about your schedule." 

Rey can smell herself on him. He's grinning and she's still staring up at him in ill contained awe.

"I was hoping I could see you, and maybe celebrate?”

The back of his knuckles skim down the back of her bicep, and suddenly her smile matches his. 

Rey takes him out for the Swedish pancakes she's been drooling about since stepping out of his studio. He had been at the Rose Studio to obtain an interim calendar of the choreography needed to be learned in certain intervals. He also has a copy of the music that has been approved at the moment. Rey has the first glimpse before all the other principal dancers and groans. 

Kylo has also been approved to come to any rehearsal he has time for outside of his own work. 

"I'm only going to see you three times a week, I'm not spreading you any thinner," he says in a tone that doesn't allow any argument. 

Rey tries anyways. "But—"

"You need sleep Rey, I'm not going to allow you to get injured. Monday and Tuesday mornings and Thursday evenings." 

Her mouth purses, she tries to give him a nasty glare. "Fine." 

The next month is frustrating and exhausting. The balm to this nonstop agitation is only found with her nimble fingers between her thighs and face pressed into her pillow. Even then, it leaves her pent up and tense with Kylo's hands on her hips and soft correction brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Remember," he growls. She begins to tremble as she holds the last pose perfectly, his hand holding her waist and cupping the back of her thigh in support. The music continues without them as they don't move. Her eyes are wide and wild and unrecognizable in the mirror before them, then flutter shut as his lips brush against her neck. 

His hands slide as she turns in his arms. 

“Kylo,” she exhales.

This is the moment that the Prince kneels, but Kylo is pushing her shoulders down. Boneless, she lets him until her knees hit the wood floor. She's still panting, one of her hands wrap loosely around his wrist in question. Her other palm grips his thigh for support and she fights the sudden lightheadedness. Kylo is leaning over her brushing his thumb under her wide eyes, across the swell of her bottom lip, smiling softly at the confusion he no doubts reads. 

"The Black Swan is the one who seduces, not the one to be seduced." 

And then he—

Walks out. 

It goes on like this for months, until Rey is so deprived of sleep and touch that she trembles each time the cool air of Kylo's studio tingles against the sink of her back. Her mind is a hazy mess of  
anticipation and covetous focus. Even with her dancing improving, she doesn't recognize herself or the dark thoughts she chases each night. Relief has yet to be found. 

"We're not practicing tonight," Kylo informs her on a Thursday evening. 

"I'm already losing an entire day to the gala tomorrow," she huffs and considers how much strength it would take to bully past him into one of the studios. Rey is deceptively strong despite what her lean frame suggests, but she supposes trying to move a mountain would more likely end in a pulled muscle.

"I know, but there's something you need to see." 

He guides her onto the busy street with a hand on her elbow. They ride in the taxi in silence, he ignores each of the questioning glances she tries to send him. The hand on her knee soothes and exhilarates her. 

"Why are we here?" Rey asks as they get out of the taxi a few blocks from Times Square. 

"You'll see," he says with a smile and grabs for her hand, having to actually drag her moping pout after him. The city is always hectic and loud and bumbling with tourists. The buildings trap the heat of the day, making the evening humidity linger long past sunset. The wet air makes her hyper-aware of every passing scent until she wants to bury her nose in Kylo's shirt and inhale sandalwood and citrus until everything else melts away. Walking normally isn’t strenuous enough for her. Instead, what should be an easy activity after a long day makes her feel the weight of her exhaustion and the dark skin under her eyes. Rehearsals have gone near flawlessly, triumphant and overwhelming all at once.

Kylo continues to pull her through crowds, his long legs eating up the pavement until he pulls her in front of him. His hands are on her shoulders and for some reason, he looks excited to be in the crowded, too loud square. She looks up at his dark hair framing the city lights reflected in his dark eyes and for a moment, forgets to breathe.

In a deft movement, he twists her around, hands landing on her shoulders as her back rests against his chest.

"This is what you need to see," he whispers in her ear and the breath she had forgotten is knocked from her.

The New York City Ballet advertisements are up.

The screen changes between three photos chosen to represent the full feeling of Swan Lake. Paige Tico is angelic as Odette, leaning forward with her arms outstretched as wings behind her. Her white tutu is beautiful and glimmers with silver detailing. 

Then Rey is looking at herself. 

"Your billboard is near my apartment. When I woke up one morning with you outside my living room, I dropped my coffee," Kylo murmurs, she can feel his chest move. "You look radiant." 

She can't find herself to disagree, because she does. She remembers the photoshoot. Her costume is in its final stages of completion. Finn sternly told her to be careful of his baby that he has spent every working hour on. The bodice was held together haphazardly, the golden feather applique cleverly pinned to her the stiff tulle of the platter tutu. Her pointe shoes had been hastily painted black and not broken in, leaving her feet sore for the next two days afterward. 

But the results— 

Her wrist are bent, her fingers daintily mocking Odette's own swan heads. But instead of demure and shy, her red mouth is parted and smiling faintly in an expression of pure mischief and cunning. Rey's eyes are elongated with an elegant, sharp line. Her back is arched as one leg rises behind her so high that her foot is the same height as her head. Her supporting leg looks strong and straight, gold flashing on her tutu. 

The next photo is Poe as the Prince with Paige in his arms, but he's looking at Rey just beside them. While Odette is effortlessly soft and unsuspecting, each of Rey and Poe's muscles is taut and powerful as the tension in the air between them. 

"This is why I agreed to train with you, to be your teacher. I knew somehow that you were capable the moment I saw you in my studio. Nobody is going to mention Odile again without Rey Cissa leaving their lips in the same breath."

Strangely, distantly, she believes him. 

She and Odile are the same being, and nobody can take that from her and she would show them why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor pent up Rey :/ hope that gets fixed before the show :////////////
> 
> Did you know principal dancers get private dressing rooms?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo is looking at her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a small update before the OPENING NIGHT

A week before the show is the Opening Gala, extravagantly priced tickets are on sale for sponsors and patrons. Champagne bubbles under the crystal chandeliers. Leia is the eye of the storm of her highest donors, exclaiming that this will be the most exciting season. She drops names of choreographers and composers that are well known, telling them which photographers are responsible for the ads. This is the only glamorous side of ballet, lingering in the same circles as the New York Elite. But Rey was just talent amongst truly powerful. It could be dangerous, some in the crowd lusting after the image of ballerina's in their beds. 

The corset of her evening gown gave her the image of curves. Her skirt was pinned to one hip and hung gracefully over the other. The red satin and silk stood out in the sea of black tuxedos, all easier for those seeking a prima. Light dances across the gold applique sewn across her torso. Rey plucks a small bite from a passing tray, nearly moaning as beef tartar melts on her tongue. Paige is telling her about the alterations Rose did to her evening gown, pointing out the silver thread expertly embroidered into the full skirt. Each line and curve mimics falling leaves, so faint that you can only grasp the image for a moment when Paige turns. 

Rey's own dress only had to be hemmed for her shorter height and tied closed. She hoped that she would never see it again after tonight, despite its beauty. 

She looks up to see where guests are still streaming in, going over talking points and necessary answers for the performance. Then every bubble in her glass goes to her head all at once.

"Paige," she says faintly, tugging on her coworker's arm without looking over at her. Rey numbly holds out her champagne flute. "Please take this before I drop it." 

Kylo is looking down from the mezzanine overhead, scanning the swelling crowd. 

Cartier is co-hosting the event as one of its main sponsors. Their earrings are hanging down her neck, worth five years her own salary, for the evening. The diamond necklace encasing her neck even more expensive. There are celebrities and actors and philanthropists milling about. 

Kylo is looking at her. 

All that control and grace is wrapped in a fine wool tuxedo and neat bowtie. He looks aristocratic as her dress, but without the feel of playing dress up as she does.

"You look stunning," he says once he reaches her, two flutes in hand. He hands her one as she smiles up at him, their height difference hardly affected by her heels. 

He shakes hands with Paige politely, "Kylo Ren. I look forward to your performance as Odette." 

"I've heard a lot about you," she says and glances at Rey.

"No, they haven't," she says quickly and looking down at her flute when he raises his brows at her. 

He stays by her side all evening, looking at her from her side as she speaks about set designs and orchestra numbers. His hand rests on the small of her back. How she feels about her role. Rey can feel his gaze trace her jaw, lingering on her throat. How she has prepared. Fingers run over the corseted ties that close over her spine. Kylo joins the discussions, even knowing some of the people that introduce themselves to her. The pads of his fingers trace looping shapes into the skin of her exposed back. He keeps his gaze forward as he speaks, the line of his mouth curled slightly. Rey can only look up at him as he connects lines between the goosebumps he's the cause of.

Rey counts the number of times her knuckles are kissed throughout the evening, not particularly caring for any of the people taking her hand. Each press of lips and bowed head makes her core tightened, not from the contact on her fingers but for Kylo’s hand gripping her hip tightly. When they first met she considered him a panther, some elegant predatory creature, pulling her into his side. Now, standing over her, he exudes the same malicious intent that people no longer linger. His long fingers tug and fidget with the creamy silk covering the curve of her waist, impatient and brooding as she continues to charm patrons into donating from their deep pockets. 

"Why did you come?" She asks him after the last group walks away, the first chance she has alone with him all evening. Rey and Kylo drift to the edge of the party. “You said you don’t like these events.”

"For you." He offers his glass in a silent toast. Her red lipstick marked the lip of her glass as she swallows the champagne. She feels fuzzy, the edges of her vision a little blurred. “But sharing you with these people is making me… restless.” 

Kylo's looking at her again, a ghost of a smile on his full lips when he leans in. Her fingers dance along the band of his Rolex, felt how his pulse changed when he turned to look down at her. This close all she can smell is the rich scent of his cologne and fine wool over the perfumed crowd, tastes citrus and the bubbles fizzing on her tongue. Champagne stains her cheeks the same shade of rose as her lipstick. His hand skims the curve of her waist and if she could breathe air would have hitched and caught in her throat. Rey redistributes her weight, crossing her ankles to press her slick thighs together. 

"I don’t belong to them, or you,” she murmurs, glancing up at him through her lashes, intentionally trying to draw a rise out of him. 

He narrows his eyes at her, lifting a gentle hand and curls into a loose elegant fist into the hair of the nape of her neck. Kylo’s possessive, but not in a way that makes her feel like a toy to be shared, but something treasured. Her roves up to the stiff, chest warm lapel of his tux. This could be frightening, she thinks as a grin curls on her mouth, but not dangerous, to push his control to crumble. 

“Who do you belong to, Rey?” 

He’s hovering above her, shoulders curling to be closer. A camera clicks nearby.

“The stage, myself,” she replies with an edge of vindictiveness. It’s a challenge, a push for him to claim her. But it’s also the truth, Rey has always belonged only to herself, now something more. 

He leans in, maybe to say something, hopefully, to kiss her. Kylo’s breath is harsh and uneven.

_”Dieu, que je t’a—”_

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, forcing them to look to whatever intruder encroached on… well— whatever the hell just happened between them. Rey blushes and looks around for another tray of anything to drown the sudden dryness in her mouth.

"Ben!"

"Ben?" Rey repeats quietly and would teeter if not for Kylo's hand on her lower back. 

"Han," He says flatly, which is ridiculous, that's Han Solo. She looks up at Kylo's profile, but he's scowling at the other retired dancer. 

Leia chooses that moment to place a hand on Han's elbow. "Son, it's so nice to see you at these functions again." 

Son. Ben. Ben Solo. _Ben Solo._

"This is a wonderful gala, Leia," Rey says as she kisses her Artistic Directors cheek, "If you'll excuse me, I need fresh air." 

She tucks her chin as she steps away, slipping between patrons. She berates herself for every heated thought and night and touch, Rey hardly knows him. 

_"Rey!"_

* * *

Ballerina's process a single-mindedness in vision and ambition that when turned to anger is a terrifying thing to behold. Not only is Rey's rage terrible, but she is much stronger than their petite frames advertise. She rips the front door of Kylo's studio open and stops dead in her tracks when several eyes lookup. Parent's glance up to see who intruded during work hours and Rey looks up to see two classes very much in session. 

Ben Solo is just past the glass wall, talking with his hands and feet to his students. She firmly tells herself to not find it endearing. One in the back of the class raises her hand and shuffles forward at his request. Rey tilts her head as the young dancer performs in half measures, pausing to point out her difficulties. She can see how the girl's turnout is hindering her movement. Then, Ben is not exactly smiling as gently correcting her form, but the softness and concentration that— Rey suddenly remembers that she is still in the middle of the waiting room. Full-on gawking her own instructor with several parent's wondering what she barged in here for. 

Her irritation with Ben Solo quiets a little, causing her to be irked with herself more than anything. 

She clears her throat and attempts a small smile. After ducking her head, she considers her two options. One, camp out in his office until he finishes up and tear into him at first opportunity. 

Two, _leave._

On one foot, she twists on her heel and takes one step toward the door when she hears him.

"Rey."

Oh hell, she doesn't know what to do. Rey gives him a flat look when she turns back to him, schooling all of her features into a somewhat neutral expression. A miracle with how her slight hangover pounds dully between her sinuses. She marches up to him and gives him an expectant look.

"I thought my students would enjoy pointers from a prima." 

Her head hurts with how her emotions flip back and forth. She goes stock still once more and peeks around his broad shoulders. 

"You don't have to," he says as a way of an out. Rey sees it as a challenge, stepping into his space as if he wasn't already leaning over her. There's movement in his jaw as if he's surprised.

She's tired of playing his games. Rey tilts her head and allows herself an indulgent look at the lips she can't stop thinking about. Rey wants them pressed against her skin, but first, she's going to bring him to his knees for what he’s done. 

"Of course, Master Ren." Her hand skims over his bicep as she steps past him and smiles cheerfully at his students. "I'm Rey Cissa, principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. I will be starring in Swan Lake as Odile on the opening weekend of the season. I would be happy to answer any questions."

The confidence she felt sweeping into the studio with eager girls with dreams on their sleeves dims a little when every hand shoots up. Rey nods to herself and patiently chooses the student closest to her. She can sense Kylo reigning in his own possessiveness as he steps back from his prima so Rey can address the next generation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh what is a reylo fic without han awkwardly breaking up ben and rey
> 
> also i'm currently watching cinderella (2015) to destress from the report on amazon (i also have a new 4k tv and it is TERRIFYING how well i can see Adam's pores in my living room???) anyways WHERE IS MY CINDERELLA AU WITH REY AND "APPRENTICE" ~~PRINCE~~ BEN SOLO DO I HAVE TO WRITE IT MYSELF????????
> 
> anyways since my mind will only focus on this piece of writing and ya know not my whole ass novel see u soon


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the third act Rey steps on stage, Odile leaves stage right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _thank you so much to everyone who read and commented and every single kind word!!!!_ 200+ kudos!!!! i'm going to go cry!!!!!!!!!

Talking to people about ballet was more natural than she expected. Anxiety still bubbled up with star-bright eyes looking up at her for inspiration as she made small corrections to the alignment of their hips. Rey nodded encouragingly to their hopes and dreams, shared the brighter moments of her career, stated over and over again that she used to be just like them. Guilt nags at her knowing some were too tall, or some just didn't have the look of being tall. 

She places her foot on the high bar, bending and stretching until she feels the hem of her top skim up her side and watches as Kylo's— Ben's eyes follow the movement. His gaze is a sear as it licks up the curve of her hip and waist. When he finally looks up at her face, she smiles slowly. His eyes narrow at her and she stretches even further, just because she can. 

Ben's mouth purses in a way that she knows he's trying to contain a grin. He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, something like, "quick study." 

"Cousin," she bites back scathingly. The words were spoken between her and Leia this morning echoes. The air of her artistic director's office was oppressing and dense with emotion only a mother could have. It left Rey a little shaken and more than angry enough to stomp all the way from the Rose Studio. 

"Semantics." 

Rey snorts, not understanding why everyone keeps pointing that out. "Were you ever going to tell me?" 

"Is that why you disrupted my class?" There they were again, his usual tactics— deflection and derision. 

"I'm upset with you, you absolute ass," she barks back, her foot slapping against the floor. Rey holds her ground as he prowls forward, he will not intimidate her into cowing. Her shoulders tense out instinct and experience with seemingly soft faces with anger boiling just under the surface. 

There's a little huff of relief when he knows not to touch her. "You are in no place to speak to a master like that." 

"Then stop lying to yourself, Ben." Her chin jerks up with its violation. "I know your secret. I know about your past master, Afanas Snoke. I know how he forced you to perform on a broken ankle. I know your one dream was to be as good as Anakin Skywalker, and he ruined them. I know you under that mask of indifference you think you need. You will _not_ lie to me again, or the only time you will be allowed to see me is on billboards." 

Rey is panting by the time she gets the words out of her forcibly. Suddenly, very sad and resigned that he might not want her after this. Maybe that mask of control isn't for anybody else, only for himself, to keep all that rage and emotion contained. She has overstepped, and now she has to face the consequences. Her nose tingles, and she's very much afraid she might start crying, reduced to hot tears and frustration. Why couldn't he just _talk_ to her? 

That anger thins, the dark eyes trained on her soften with something like subdued shock and well- deserved awe. Ben does reach out to her then. His forefinger runs along her jaw until his thumb can trace the line of her bottom lip. His voice is rough, "Perfect. You have a week six days until opening night, shall we begin?"

* * *

The week before the seasons opening weekend is frantic — interviews, photoshoots, hair and makeup, last-minute changes to the set and music. Rey and Poe are working flawlessly together, as they are with every other cast member, but they can only be on stage nitpicking every movement before they need to cool off in their dressing rooms. Ben, or still Kylo Ren in public, has sat through every session. The other directors have stopped trying to shoo him away once they realized his worth, and the calming effect he has on their principal. Like every dancer, Rey has weaknesses, but she has worked too hard to let them define her. She and Ben have learned to accentuate her strengths to the point that the idea that this prima is anything but ballet at it's finest is impossible. On stage, she has no limitations in her art, only innate ability. 

Poe misses a single beat, something that would easily be recovered from during an actual performance with improv and professionalism. During rehearsals, it ends in a stalemate of glares and choreographers calling for a twenty-minute break. 

Rey enters the bare dressing room that is on the same level as the stage. An upgrade from the shared space below overrun with Corps dancers. Her bag spilled over the small couch, dark leggings and spare ribbons were strewn over the arm. Ben's massive frame dips under the threshold, immediately taking up far too much of the already small space. 

Boxes of her spare pointe shoes have been delivered by the costuming department, handcrafted for her. Already she knows they will only last one performance her body heat breaks down the glue holding them together. Her black costume was completed a few days ago, sitting impatiently in the corner. The golden thread that embroiders then entire bodice shimmers in the low light of her lamp. Makeup chosen for the show is meticulously laid out on the vanity by her hours before. She's thoroughly prepared, but something is off. 

"What am I missing?" she asks herself quietly. Bone-Deep exhaustion blankets her muscles that are too tight and too extended. Her entire right leg aches. Rey puts her head in her hands, not wanting to look in the mirror and forced to peel back the veil hiding what she lacks. 

"You're perfection," Ben says behind her with a new, unfamiliar softness. 

There is a tentative trust between them, newfound ease that comes with every high and low point between them. She's asked about his past, his career, his family and he answers with begrudging honesty. Rey chips away at his brooding exterior, uncovering the depth of his love of ballet and travel and history. He practices calligraphy. He writes letters to his mother. His apartment is the loose definition of the word, where the library would be more appropriate. It's a space of hard edges and an inability to let go of the past. Rey is still on the billboard outside. He’s murmured promises to show her, to press her against the window.

His hands rest on her shoulders while his thumbs find the knot between her shoulder blades. She sinks lower, tension uncoiling with a small noise of need. 

"You are grace personified," he says in her ear, his lips brushing the shell of her ear and making her body go cold and warm. When will she decide on a reaction to this man? His mouth closes over her pulse point, and her head falls to the side. Ben’s tongue runs up the column of her throat followed by the brush of his bottom lip to chase her breathy moan. To keep her hands from trembling, Rey grabs for the edge of her dressing table. This is a dangerous thing. 

"You are—," he starts against her skin but starts to laugh, "so short, stand up so I can do this properly." 

Numbly and not understand what exactly he means to do next, she does on shaking knees and turns to face him. 

"I have never seen anything like you," he says in that rumbling mystified tone of their first meeting. His thumbs brush over the freckles under wide hazel eyes as he cups Rey's face. Her arms are slack at her sides, and every thought leaves her head as his mouth slants over hers. 

With alarm, Rey knows to return the kiss by pressing her lips to his. Incredible and unbelievably soft, Rey turns downright eager to move against them. Her mouth parts immediately at the sensation of his tongue tracing the swell of her bottom lip, at how his large hands grip her hip and waist. Her surprise is licked away gently. 

When her tongue meets him, there is something unleashed with a groan. Rey's hands are in his hair, her body pressed flush against his, and squeezed even tighter until every line of theirs has become one. Ben growls against her, and Rey wasn't expecting this. Her girl-like dreams were full of chaste kisses and perhaps a hand in hers, not this hot slide of skin and her back against a wall. Not this fervor and chase, not moans and shuddering breaths. 

There is a sudden urge to touch him, her hands seeking the hem of his shirt and trailing upward over the smooth plane of his skin-warm stomach. In return, he expertly pulls the few clips from her bun, burying a hand just above the nape of her neck. With her head back at this new angle of his design, he deepens the kiss even further. His groan reverberates through her as fingers touch the damp spot on her leggings. 

She can't keep her hips from moving, rocking shyly against his hand. Her core is molten, and shoulders are shaking of the muted pleasure of his circling movements. 

She whimpers when he pulls back, a question in his dark eyes that she consents to with a sharp nod. Ben is— 

On his knees. 

Gently pulling the waistband of her leggings down and pressing kisses to the exposed skin as he goes. She doesn't feel exposed or embarrassed in the soft light, with her eyes watching avidly, even as he removes them from her ankles when she makes the choice to step out of them— not even when he looks at her entirely. There's heat everywhere, between her legs, her chest, the high parts of her cheeks, each pulse of her steadfast heart. It only deepens and smolders as he pulls on her right knee and hooks it over his shoulder. 

He's looking at her again, the way he has in his studio late into the evening, across dinner and candlelight, at the gala over champagne. 

Rey doesn't know what will come next, but she trusts Ben to make it feel good. It's unexpected when his mouth closes over her once more, and her spine curls. Her head hits the wall as her fingers find his hair, never wanting him to stop the lavish swipes against her. 

When she thinks that he could not possibly heighten the pleasure, he presses a single finger against her, curling it slightly. Penetration was still new and awkward on her own, too slick and distracting. Now, she can hardly remember to breathe with ever voluntary thought and instinctive flutter wrapped around him. With a groan, he has to stop, touching his forehead to her stomach before he slowly works in and out of her. Somehow, she knows she wetter now than she ever has with only herself and imagination. Ben's wrist isn't forced to bend to a shortened angle that makes Rey whimper in frustration at; his reach is broader and makes her spine slacken and melt. Her hips buck once more at the second finger and soft, vulgar word coming from Ben. 

"Fuck Rey," he murmurs, his eyes closed and pressing kisses against her stomach. "I've got you, I've got you, just let go." 

She doesn't know how. The tightness that builds makes her knees shake, and just as she thinks she can't take any more of this brand of torture— Ben's mouth is on her once more. His moan vibrates against her, pushing her over an unseen peak until she's falling and unraveling and biting down on her hand to keep herself from screaming. 

It's ecstasy. It's a triumph. It's— 

"Holy mother loving _fuck_ ," she whispers to the ceiling, and Ben laughs with his cheek against her thigh. 

"Rey Cissa to stage!" Comes over the intercom and Rey is very, very nervous that she can't _walk._

* * *

He guides her through backstage to the wings; her stomach is jittery as it is with every performance. But this is something beyond her expectations for herself; she is going to make history. Ben had sat patiently with her in her dressing room once more, somehow keeping his hands to himself. When her hands had started shaking, he had applied her stage makeup with years of practice. Now, he stands at her side with his hands in his pockets. She lifts her chin, her hands flutter. 

"You come from nothing, and you are nothing, but not to me, not to them. Tonight you will be the Black Swan. Show them what I see and transcend, Rey." 

"What if no one sees me the way you do?" she whispers, her hands clenching and unclenching over her full platter tutu. 

"Dance for me then, but more importantly, dance for yourself," he says in her ear, pressing a lingering kiss to her neck, not caring if the other dancers see them. She thinks of her dressing room, of the power of having this man before her. An acute understanding floods her. "I'll be in the boxes."

* * *

In the third act Rey steps on stage, Odile leaves stage right.

* * *

Her entire body is soft and pliant in her disbelief from the standing ovation, from the roses scattered at her feet. The audience isn't supposed to even _like_ Odile; she's the villain who steals the prince away and leads him to his death. They cheered wildly through her first and second curtsies. Maybe her mother was watching, maybe Rey didn't care anymore. 

Rey's eyes are comically wide in the mirror, only enhanced with smudged stage makeup, but she's slowly regaining feeling in her limbs when there's a hard knock at her door. She stands to answer it, but Ben is already through the threshold, swinging the door shut and locking it without looking away from her, then prowls forward. 

"Fucking hell, prima," he whispers softly as his hands cup her jaw, the vulgar words like a benediction in his whisper. Then he kisses her more firmly than before. Her lips curve in a soft _'oh'_ that he licks away. 

She sees her brick red lipstick smeared across his mouth. It looks like blood, like pomegranate juice, like heaven. 

"Don't you dare rip this," she says against his mouth, her cosmetics clattering against the floor as he hoists her onto the table with ease. 

"Costuming department will forgive you after a performance like that," he growls as the stiff tulle of her platter skirt is yanked not ungently down her legs. "I'm going to fuck you for a performance like that." 

With her legs bare and one last searing kiss, he turns her. "Put your knees on the bench." 

He guides her hands until her palms are flat against the dressing table. Rey watches him in the mirror as she has so many times before. His hands undo the ties of her bodice, hair falling forward and obscures kisses down her spine as the fabric parts. Her tanned and freckled skin looks pale next to the dark wool of his tuxedo, the light throwing them in chiaroscuro. Together, they are a study of strength and control, conditioned regime and innate talent, and something more.

He wraps an arm around her waist to keep her from moving, groaning as one finger sinks into her. Rey is already panting as the second comes quicker than the last time, his other hand working against her clit. 

His belt comes undone frantically with one hand, refusing to leave her for a moment. Ben remembers himself, pulling away from her. Rey's mind is hazy, but faintly she can hear his zipper and the rip of foil. 

"Is this still good?" he whispers against the shell of her ear, pushing against her but not giving in to her just yet. 

"Please, Ben." 

It's overwhelming and painful, but inch by inch Rey melts against him. The first few thrusts leave her whimpering through bitten lips and Ben peppering her neck in gentle kisses. 

His hands move over her hips soothingly, pulling her against him, slow and tender. She shies away from the hand at her breast; it's too much all at once. Ben hums into her neck, moving his hand until his forearm lays against her sternum, his large hand cupping her throat. Her back arches against him, until she can rest her head against his shoulder. Rey wraps one of her hands around his wrist, the other snaking into his hair. The way he moves— Rey is rendered speechless, toeing a strange line between pleasure and pain. The taut stretch relaxes until _oh._

"Ben," she mewls and her bottom lip trembles. 

"Open your eyes," he says in her ear, "Watch." 

Her eyes stay closed for a moment longer just to savor him. Then with a wicked grin, Rey says, "Yes, Master Ren." 

A shudder goes through him. He sinks his teeth in Rey's shoulder to keep himself quiet, hair brushing against her cheek as his hips snap. Her hazel eyes are hidden beneath her false lashes, half-lidded and unable to open any more. 

A rich flush claws up the lattice of her ribs, over her chest to the dusky peaks of her breasts. Ben moves behind her in barely controlled movements. His mouth moves over her neck, sharp breath fanning over her skin. Red lipstick is stained over parted lips, all slight moans and sharp intakes of breath every time he presses into her. It's debauchery and one of the most beautiful things she has ever seen or felt. A tableau of her lust is painted between her thighs with her arousal. 

"It's like you were made for me," He slows his pace into a lazy roll that she can handle. 

"I was made for no one but myself." She stands by the statement, but it's hard to find true with just how perfectly he fills her. 

"Then let me think of another way to tell you how fucking amazing you feel," he growls, cupping his hand against her sex, rubbing her clit in time of his hips. 

“Your pretty cunt is otherworldly clenching around my cock,” he says with a nip to her ear. Going limp and surrendering to the smoldering fire in her core, pushing against him to fill the ache of him not being inside her, desperately chasing him. Ben holds her firmly in place for this dulcet torture, his fingers flex with each of her mewls and dig into her skin further. 

“Does that feel good?” he asks with a particularly cruel slow stroke. His tone is soft with concern as if this man could ever second guess himself when she tastes nectar and stars in her wet mouth. 

Rey nods helplessly, lips unable to come together to speak. Her hands clench on her vanity and she only wants to press her forehead onto the cool surface. Ben’s hand grips her hair back, pulling her back flush to his chest. 

“I want— to see how good I can make you feel, prima,” he tells her as he works across her jaw and traces his fingers around her soundless moan, smearing her reddened lips. Unfocused and half-lidded her eyes are more brown and darker than she’s ever seen. Rey looks to his face, his hungry gaze holding hers. His pace shudders. 

“I’m terrified of you,” Ben says, his lower lip brushing against the shell of her ear, “and the way you make me feel. You’ve captivated me wholly.” 

It's devastating when the orgasm builds, shuddering and clenching against him with pleas of _please don't stop._

In her aftershocks she hears, "I’m in love with you." 

His mouth punctuates each statement with a kiss against her neck, her jaw, her temple as he continues to move. His rhythm shatters and voice breaks. "You are the best thing to ever come into my life. Your tenacity, the way you yell at me, the way you see me. I was lost when I first heard you laugh." 

His face is buried in the crook of her neck, her skin there now damp. 

"I'm here, Ben, I've got you." 

Rey can feel his fingers tighten and smile against her skin.

* * *

Swan Lake is extended three more weekends. Every night sold out and buzzed with anticipation for the rising prima. Each performance is an unattainable perfection never known again to any company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the original epilogue had ben proposing to her on stage of her final performance of the season, except i remembered _nutcracker_ and now have a vague notion of part two of this series with ben's pov, so get ready for all of my very obscure knowledge after finishing my SIXTH (!!!!!) nutcracker performance (my local company are students and we used these funky christmas tree ornaments as snowflake headpieces but u get the point) and pestering my professional friends for information ("mads i'm not going to count the number of layers in a tulle skirt" she did, it's seven)
> 
> is it cliche to give Rey the Sugarplum role??? maybe, is Sugarplum an extremely difficult name to turn into a title??? yes, pls i'm struggling Balanchine, fuck u
> 
> one more update to go! edit: I’m waiting on a commission to post with the final chapter!! thank you so much for reading!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Reviews come out today,” she whispers, turning onto her side as he slides his other arm under her sleep-warm shoulders to pull her closer. The sheets are tight over the curve of her hip as he traces her spine up and down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last update for now 🥺🥺 plus i switched to ben's pov to set up the next piece of the series 
> 
> but more important: [this fanart i commissioned from @buriedbloom](https://twitter.com/trilla__suduri/status/1217560625582350336?s=20)

Ben woke up to his prima wide awake and impatiently fidgeting for the remaining twelve minutes to pass before his alarm was supposed to go off. He reaches over what used to be his side of the bed to turn the device off. The sacrifice of his pillow is worth it if he gets to continue to wake up to her ardent smile and scrunched freckle-dusted nose. Bare golden skin is bright in the predawn hours against his dark sheets, reminding him of the broken thread of her bodice keeping her sewn together last night. Rey stretches languidly under his arm draped over her, all conditioned muscles and pointed toes brushing against his calf. He watches out of the corner of his eye, still not quite ready to rise and not willing to return the comparatively dull dreams next to this radiant girl. 

“Reviews come out today,” she whispers, turning onto her side as he slides his other arm under her sleep-warm shoulders to pull her closer. The sheets are tight over the curve of her hip as he traces her spine up and down. 

“You were perfect,” he assures her sleepily and runs a thumb under her wide, hazel eyes, greener than he’s ever seen. The cool touch of spring and new growth. “Did you sleep at all?” 

Rey shrugs one shoulder. “I just woke up. I was very… sated last night, after— don’t look smug.” 

“Apologies, prima. “ 

His lopsided smile is still in place when she rolls her eyes then drops when she winces. 

“I’ll run you a bath, it should help with the soreness.” 

Under the blanket of Epson salts, lavender milk, and various essential oils to soothe and calm, Rey looks up at him with softened eyes when he returns to the bathroom. Ben perches on the rim, handing her a cup of coffee, vitamins, and painkillers. 

Her brows furrow as she takes a sip, noticing what’s folded under his arm. “Is that—?”

“Today’s paper from down the street? Yes.” 

He opens to the entertainment section as Rey sits up. Ben does his best to focus despite the water running in milky rivulets down her breasts. 

_”Magnificent and predatory, Odiel arrives in the world’s more glamorous black tutu_ — Finn did a beautiful job, he’s extremely talented— _it’s clear from the first extension that she came with the goal of dominating the stage and the prince’s heart. Rey Cissa’s first principal performance with the New York City Ballet is spellbinding with a capacity to manipulate the audience into wanting to kneel at her feet._ ”

Rey sinks back into the water looking more relaxed and satisfied, lifting on foot when he gestures for it. The paper dots with spots of water on the floor as his thumb presses into her arch. His gaze lands on her knee, knowing how it feels to have it thrown over his shoulder and realizes instinctively that he’s ruined for this girl.

* * *

In the privacy of his studio and the additional freedoms of her principal position, Ben watches Rey stretch over the bar in peace. Her black leggings make her seem longer and leaner, an unfair and intrusive thought on his part, knowing the routines she has and lengths she goes to maintain her strength and stamina. The _color_ itself is what distracts him. 

Free of makeup and bus looser than what the stage demands, her eyes find his in the mirror covering the walls before bending at the waist. The arch of her back is deeper than it had been last night, the valley of her spine stark as he comes behind her without thought. His hands run up and engulf her sides, bending over her to ensure she’s pulling her shoulders together correctly. That had been his only virtuous goal, not taking her firm muscle under his thumbs into consideration or how his fingertips trace her sports bra, inches from her breasts. Ben rubs small circles into a knot as she finishes her thirty second stretch. A small moan makes him pause and continue with more pressure. 

A minute passes with her knuckles white around the bar and he’s caught off guard by his own fingers slipping into her waistband. He steps back after an inch of skin is exposed and misses the dimples of her lower back under his touch. Rey’s breathing is uneven as she straightens. Ben finds it easier to compose himself when she doesn’t turn toward him, watches the flush creep across the freckles of her cheekbones. The way her shoulders roll transfixes him until he can take another step back and regrets it. 

Dainty and deliberate, she places her ankle on the bar, sliding down until her hip flexors must burn if the way her nose scrunches is anything to go by. Ben swallows as she continues her split, her biceps defined as she lifts the majority of her weight to keep her from overstretching.

He notices the smirk curling in the corner of her mouth when he mumbles about paperwork and steps out. She finds him again with a pen between his lips and shuffling through a stack of paperwork. 

Rey flushes when the pen falls and clatters against the desk, spreading under the sheen of sweat on her chest when he mumbles, _”Tu es beau.”_

She’s used to technical terms and passing dialogue, but something three syllables makes her look like she’ll come apart at the seams as easily as tulle between his fingers. He notes the reactions with a private grin and leans back in his chair. Rey moves around the desk freely, strange and welcoming to have her in his space as she leans across the desk to tap the document he’s studying. 

“What are these?” 

“Early applicants for the summer program,” Ben says. Her eyes flicker toward him, always more vibrant in his studio, when they’re on him. He watches the back of his hand skim down her arm, gaze roving over the goosebumps his touch elicits. Rey swats at his distracting hand. 

“It’s only the beginning of the professional season,” she murmurs, “You really are the best in the city if they’re already applying.” 

He shrugs one shoulder in a rare show of humility. “One of them, at least.”

Ben turns in his chair and tries to pull her between his knees, his hand spans her entire thigh. His thumb runs over the delicate line of her hip bone under her black leggings. She’s still distracted. 

_“Vous êtes ravissante,”_ he tries. 

Rey huffs, her hair curling sweetly around her face, skin warm with exertion. Without looking, he pushes the paperwork away from her wandering eyes and off the desk. Whatever objection she has is lost time, focusing on the strip of her skin on her abdomen. Already taut muscle tenses under his mouth. His hands curl into the waistband of her leggings, glancing up in permission before he starts to pull them down. 

“What if someone walks in?” 

He lifts her onto the edge of the desk, her bare legs dangling off. 

“I made it a habit to lock the doors when you’re here,” Ben says ask against her sternum, working across her chest in heavy, wet kisses. 

_"Tu m'as manqué, aussi, prima,"_

Her heels rest on the arms of his chair as he works her sports bra off of her. Rey trusts him irrevocably, but he watches her swallow past a sudden anxiousness when he gently lays her back. The cool surface against her shoulder blades makes her gasp and arch sharply into his hand covering her stomach. He sits back into his chair and folds her good leg onto the desk, then, he rolls her ankle in his lap. Ben feels Rey tense in surprise, not looking up as she pulls herself onto her elbows. He continues to test her range of motion before pressing both thumbs into the overworked arch of her foot. Her entire body goes loose and pliant with the little circles against her skin. He moves up her shin, careful on the inside where she suffers from splints.

“What happened here?” he asks and brushes the pad of his fingers against the bruise on her thigh as his other hand messages the tender spot behind her knee. 

Her eyes flutter open, focusing on the ceiling, irritation storming her features. “Poe dropped me in rehearsals.” 

“He’s dropped me too,” he snorts, “but he was eight.” 

“Were you always twice his size?” 

“He’s three years older than me,” a pause and suppressed smile, “but yes.” 

Ben presses a kiss against the light purple and yellow skin, dark hair shifting as he leans into her as if forcing her attention away from Poe. The thoughts he has around her are unbecoming, primal things. Rey would kill him is she had a glimpse into his mind as her legs press together. 

Then, she winces. 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” 

“Ben, ow.” she groans and tries to shift away from the pressure of his fingers digging into her hip flexor. 

“Almost done,” he tells her quietly, giving her a soothing kiss. “I’ll make you feel better.” 

His hands cover her naked hips, kneading in firm circles that were verging painful but necessary to unknot her muscles. Ben hides his frustration in hurting her against her chest, distracting her from the rough pressure of his hands. He traces her collarbone with his lips, brushing his lips down to the swell of her breast, against her sternum. 

“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” 

He kisses her, slow and tender and lingering until he pulls away and she tries to chase his lips. 

_”Je vais penser à vous sur l'affichage pour moi chaque fois que je m'assois à mon bureau, si belle,”_ he murmurs and kisses her knee, slowly positioning her strong legs over his shoulders. His powerful frame finds purpose in support of her, sweeter, saccharine and content, better than any stage or applause. 

Ben traces her honey slick curls with his thumb, circling her clit in smooth, even measure, just light enough to make it frustrating. Rey whimpers and tries to roll her hips closer, seeking pressure, the shift of her muscles captivating. 

_"Vous avez pensé à ma bite toute la journée, prima? Tu es tellement mouillé pour moi."_

He wants nothing more than to put his mouth on her and chase her climb until she’s shaking and dripping onto his desk. She has to answer to him first. 

"Tell me, prima."

First, she has to wait for her breath to return, the stretch of his two fingers still so much for her.

"I don't know what _une bite_ \--" she whispers on an exhale that melted into a groan as his fingers curled. There is a keen in her throat when he pulls out and she clenches around nothing, an ache to the fingers circling her hips back inside her. His erection beneath fine wool presses against her as he braces an elbow against the desk, one thumb traces her cheekbone as she pants under him.

"It means my cock," he tells her and watched her lips part as he rocked gently against her. "I asked you if you had thought about my cock today? If that's why you're so wet for me."

"Yes, please— please, Ben."

"What do you want, prima?" The corner of his mouth pulled up before he leaned into his kiss her, licking at the moan on her lips as he continued his pace. _"Veux-tu que je baise ta chatte sur ce bureau?"_

Rey paused and tested the new word in her mouth, how it vibrated from the back of her tongue and made the tip tingle. A heat flushed sluiced through her core as he groaned into her neck at her words. _"Je veux que tu baises ma… petite chatte serrée avec ta bite— s'il te plait, Maître Ren."_

"Quick study."

* * *

Ben sits in the dressing room off stage and watches Rey's nerves begin to build again, worse than this morning. The stark light of the dressing room worse than the soft rising sun. 

"Sweetheart, stop worrying so loud." 

He doesn't look up from her pointe shoe between his knees, too busy with threading the needle through the ribbon coming loose at the ankle. The stool in front of her vanity scrapes as Rey stands to pace the small space, hands flexing and curling. 

He sets the shoe aside, leaning back into the cushion. In a firm voice that makes the graceful dancer trip, he says, "Prima, come here." 

There's no shyness in how she comes to stand between his knees, only some confusing knitted into her brow that melts when he runs his hands up her thighs to grip her waist. Sitting down it's still easy for him to lift her and pull her forward until her knees rest on either side of him. 

The first kiss is soft, a reassurance. 

"I've got you, prima," he murmurs into the small moan as he rips the leggings instead of pulling them off, she has extra anyways. Her hair isn't up yet, thankfully, he thinks as he gathers it in one hand to tilt her head back. His mouth moves and nips along her throat as Rey fumbles at his belt, too distracted to take it off cleanly. 

"I want you," she whispers, the quiet confession tightens his entire torso. 

"You can take whatever you want, sweetheart," he tells her, licking into her mouth to muffle his groan as her hands work him free of his wool slacks. Rey's shirt hits the floor, leaving her with only flushed skin, dusky pink nipples, and torn black leggings, exposed only for him. Her hands smooth over the tailored, pleated front of his tuxedo shirt.

“Show me how you move, prima,” he whispers.

Ben's head falls back as Rey sinks her teeth into his shoulder, wholly unprepared for the stretch. She presses her forehead into his neck as she experimentally rocks her hips, so wet that she makes a mess of the front of his pants. Not that would care if his tux wasn't hung and pressed next to her costume. Her pace is erratic and untamed, nothing like what the patrons would see on stage. His grip tightens, knowing that no one else will enjoy this sort of frenzied motion of the composed dancer. It's exquisite debauchery and licentious in nature, but if she doesn't stop he's going to come before her. 

"Slow down." His hands cover her hips, guiding her with the suggestion of movement, "You're perfect, I—"

He swallows the words that she hasn't responded to yet. 

"I love you, too, I do. I didn't know how—" She moans when his hips buck, parted lips never looking more beautiful and fingers digging into his shoulder.

"Say that again." 

"I love you, Ben."

_”Rey Cissa to stage in ten, twenty-minute call.”_

If there was one moment that Ben didn’t give a _fuck_ about professionalism it was this moment. _This_ moment with his name in her mouth and her clit grinding against his pubic bone. Ben groans at the shameless rock of her hips. All of her pre-show anxiety twisted into want, folded into a need until she’s murmuring incoherently into his neck. His hands flatten over the smooth curve of her spine arching into him. Rey’s thighs are tight around him but her body is pliant as he bucks gently into her, half out of his mind with how silky and _hot_ —

“Ben please, make me come —I have to— fuck, Ben, please—”

“Are you begging, prima?” came his own voice distantly, “I think I like it, I could drag this out—”

Rey sat up, her eyes glassy and lipstick smeared in the corner, and cups his jaw firmly. “You either make me come right now or you’re not tasting me until the premiere of Nutcracker.” 

“I am so in love with you,” he says half-choked with how hot his chest feels. 

Her hands are so tight on his shoulders that he thinks her nails are going to rip the fabric. Her cunt is dangerously tight around him as her lips part. Their breath fans over each other’s skin, ragged and fragmented. He rocks roughly into the molten heat of her core and shoves his shaking hand between them, circling her clit.

“Ben, I wanna hear that again.” Her plea slurs slightly as he pushes her over the edge, “I’m—” 

He pushes her hair back, hand falling to her throat.

_”Je suis tellement amoureux de toi.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and _fin_
> 
> pls comment so i actually write part two lmao
> 
> but seriously [**look at this**](https://twitter.com/trilla__suduri/status/1217560625582350336?s=20)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is going to get super horny and messy and i love it


End file.
